Come Back When You Can
by hopelessromantic549
Summary: Or, the four times Elena Gilbert slaps Damon Salvatore, and the one time she doesn't. D/E through 2x09. Five-parter.
1. We're Forcing What's Wrong

**A/N: I **_**adore**_** Damon and Elena, and I love them most when she's all angry with him for pushing the boundaries with her. Their chemistry is literally crazy! So this story is about that – she slaps him when he gets too close.**

**I already have the story written. It will be five chapters. I want to finish posting this before the next episode, so I will be posting just about every day – I will post earlier if I get 15 reviews on a chapter :)**

**Title from song by Barcelona; all lyrics from that, too. This first time is from 1x02, Friday Night Bites – some slaps will be from the show (although the details will be different) and some I will make up on my own. Enjoy, thank you for reading, and please don't favorite without reviewing!**

_I've been led on to think that we've been trying for too long  
Every time we drift  
We're forcing what's wrong_

She doesn't really believe in fate.

But then, he's always had a way of changing her mind.

…

The first time she slaps him, it's purely a self-defense mechanism.

And really, she wishes she could say she's less indignant than anxious, less offended than wary. But the truth is, she doesn't slap him because of her growing attachment to his younger brother. She doesn't slap him because whatever he's about to do would make her feel disloyal and probably a little dirty. She doesn't even slap him because they're in plain sight and whatever's going on between them could be construed quite differently from what is actually happening.

No. She slaps him because, goddamn it, she _is_ attracted to him.

And, frankly, that terrifies her.

…

She's walking out to her car, brow furrowed in preoccupation (for maybe the tenth time since her parents died, Matt tried to get back together with her, and she doesn't know how to reject him anymore). Her thoughts feel jumbled, confused, and she's acting on prior knowledge, some sort of twisted autopilot, putting one foot in front of the other like a robot who's been programmed to find its way home.

Not that she even knows where home is. Not anymore.

She shakes her head, tears finally materializing in her tired eyes. She's tried to be so strong for so long that nowadays, the least malevolent of injustices can set her off. And this wasn't even an injustice. God, what's _wrong_ with her?

In fact, she's so enthralled with her significantly screwed-up thoughts that she doesn't notice the beautiful (she has to be honest with herself about that) boy leaning against the hood of her car, black leather jacket securely on that muscular body as always, black eyes smoldering, fiery.

Enticing.

She growls when she catches sight of him. She doesn't even _know_ him! Sure, she might be…involved with his brother (don't get her started on that one), but they're not exactly at the stage of meeting the family yet.

But she pulls herself away from their blossoming relationship somehow and stalks over to where her almost-boyfriend's jerk of a brother is standing, looking quite casual and unassuming.

She scoffs under her breath. Yeah, right.

She doesn't allow fear or anxiety to creep into her voice. She just marches right up to stupid _Damon_ (she absolutely adores how fitting the reference to demons is), crosses her arms, and demands scathingly, "What are you doing here?"

She doesn't really expect him to be taken aback by her brusque question, since he's so unbelievably arrogant that nothing seems to faze him. But _she's_ taken aback when he just smirks at her and crosses his arms, too, as if he's…making fun of her?

No way. He wouldn't be that stupid.

Wait. He totally would.

She sighs. One sentence and he's already got her suitably exasperated. Damn it!

"Once again," she begins, emphasizing each word as if it will help the probably slow-witted boy (she knows otherwise, of course, but she prefers thinking she's smarter than him) understand her meaning. "What are you doing here?"

He smiles serenely, his black eyes boring steadily into hers. He has this smug look on his face, like he knows something she doesn't. She hates that expression of his, she really does. She's only known him for a matter of weeks, but she knows she would give anything to wipe that light out of his eyes.

"Wouldn't you like to know," he taunts, his lips pulling up at the corners like he's fighting the urge to grin even wider.

She hates him for it.

She drops her arms, clenching her fists as she tries to regain control of the situation. "Yes, I would," she grits out, her teeth grinding together relentlessly. "I would like to know."

He surprises her by laughing heartily, but what's even more shocking is how indisputably lovely the sound is. She's entranced by how silver and clear the note emanating from his mouth is, and she catches herself on the verge of giggles herself. Huh. Who would have guessed it? Damon Salvatore's laugh is _infectious_.

Weird.

She shakes her head angrily, shakes herself free of the lingering awe. This is not what she wants. This is not what she needs.

"Well, you're obviously not going to tell me," she asserts haughtily, pursing her lips impatiently and moving to push past him.

But his hands grip her shoulders, holding her in place, and although his fingers aren't tight on her skin, she feels herself suddenly become virtually immobile. Great.

Ugh. Now she actually has to deal with him, instead of ignoring him like she'd planned to.

She pulls back, glares at him. "What are you _doing_?" she hisses, self-consciously sweeping the parking lot for signs of anyone she knows. This is not exactly something she wants to be caught doing; it kind of looks like a compromising situation.

He smiles at her, sincere and sweet (at least, that's the act he puts on), and her eyes fix on the usually sinister curve of his lips. She really shouldn't dwell on how intensely attractive she is, but being with Stefan hasn't really numbed her to the Salvatore looks. If anything, actually, it's made her even more attuned to their entrancing smiles. That family was definitely blessed with good genes.

"Elena," he placates, and she shouldn't be distracted by how tender and _hot_ the word sounds (but then, all the things she "should" be doing don't exactly apply here), "I just want to get to know you."

She raises her eyebrows incredulously. "You want to get to know me?" She repeats, shrugging him off like the vermin he is; his hand falls unceremoniously. She ignores the undeniable flush creeping up her neck. "Yeah, fat chance."

She tries to walk away again, but she can feel the heat of that black stare on her back, and it's uncomfortable. She spins around abruptly, appraising him with something akin to disdain in her eyes.

"What?" She pushes, becoming more and more agitated as he only seems to become more and more relaxed. She takes a careful step backward, keeping a considerable distance between them even as he saunters toward her rather…seductively.

"What do you want?" She manages to choke out, trying to keep her mind off how sensual his movements are. Maybe she's on her period or something. Because this is getting a little ridiculous.

She's not supposed to want him this badly.

He just smiles, and she swears he must read her mind or something. "What?" he asks innocently, moving closer so gracefully and inconspicuously that her mind doesn't even register his proximity. "Are you…" He seems to be grasping for the right word, but somehow she doubts that. "Afraid of me?"

She deliberates for a moment. The truthful answer is "yes," of course. She doesn't know why, but he just seems so _dangerous_. Now, whether she means dangerous as in he can kill her or dangerous as in he might make her do things she'll regret, she doesn't know. Therein lies the problem.

_God_ he confuses her.

She has no idea what kind of answer he's expecting. She doesn't know what he's trying to figure out.

She rolls her eyes dramatically. "I don't have to answer that," she deflects, a slight frown pulling at her mouth. This conversation isn't going anywhere good.

He doesn't say anything, and she quickly averts her gaze, her eyes blazing with so many emotions that she feels inherently melancholy. The silence stretches, contracts. He stands stock still and shoots her a pointed stare.

She doesn't know why even in the darkness, she can tell what the expression on his face is right now.

"You're afraid of me," he counters confidently, matter-of-factly, the smirk evident in his voice. He seems delighted with the fact.

She tilts her chin up, raising her eyes to meet his defiantly. "And why would you think that?" she prods, struck by the banality of this question. Whatever is happening right now feels strangely mundane, but she can't shake the overwhelming sensation that she's in trouble.

He cocks his head, a movement that leaves her much too breathless. "Well," he supplies, his blue eyes fairly smoldering, "The obvious answer is that you think I'm violent." He waggles his fingers experimentally, as if gearing up to touch her or something equally abhorrent. "And you're definitely right," he assures her, his tone just the wrong side of patronizing.

She glares at him, fighting the fervor rising through her body. Now is not the time to throw one of her patented tantrums.

His lips curve, just enough to sting. "But I think you're afraid of me because of how I make you feel," he muses finally, drawing out the words like it will make them true somehow.

She scowls furiously. This is unreal.

"Oh really?" She's ashamed of how shrill her voice sounds, how manic. She's displeased with how _cornered_ the words are, like she's afraid he's going to discover her deep dark secret or something nauseating like that.

Like she's afraid he's right.

He comes closer still, unnerving her more than a little. "Yes, really," he drops easily. "Allow me to enlighten you."

She's livid, fuming. Her throat is literally constricting with how angry she is, and she takes a sharp, needless breath. She opens her mouth to say something, to protest that he couldn't be more wrong, that she feels absolutely nothing for him, that –

"You're attracted to me."

He offers this assessment of her feelings toward him so nonchalantly that she almost misses the gravity of his statement. He's just said he turns her _on_. There are so many things wrong with that assumption, so many things she can't even count. For one, being attracted to him would mean actually being able to tolerate him.

Which, really, is still a work in progress.

She flips her hair bitchily over her shoulder, fixing him with the iciest stare she can muster. "And what makes you think that?" She asks, her voice dripping with the sarcasm he's famous for.

And, true to form, he only widens his eyes sexily (she doesn't know why it makes her throat dry) and murmurs, "Well, for one, you're barely breathing right now."

Oh God. He's right about that. She's really not breathing right now.

Her stomach plummets so far she's afraid her food has ended up around her legs. She is completely miffed. How the hell is she going to get herself out of this?

She takes a deep breath, reminding herself that if she's going to fight him on this one, she has to be able to talk at least.

"What's your point?" She asks offhandedly, if shakily, pointedly fingering the hem of her simple purple tank top like she has so many better things to do than stand here talking to him. It's not exactly healthy for her to enjoy the smell of him so much, and she would _really_ like to dispel the animal arousal conquering her body. The only problem is, she can't feign indifference towards him.

She just can't.

"My point," he mocks her, his eyes cheeky and unconcerned, "Is that you think I'm hot."

She shrugs evenly. She doesn't know how she's going to argue that one. (Come on, the boy is _ridiculously_ hot. She stares at him all the time.)

He smiles victoriously; she glares at him, hating that he's gloating but unable to stop him. "I get to you," he continues nonchalantly, his eyes enchanting and, as always, completely unreadable.

Wow. This charisma of his is a force to be reckoned with.

"You've got that right," she mutters under her breath, except she couldn't mean it in a more negative sense (she likes _Stefan_; she hates that Damon could even think otherwise), and she'd be damned if he ever understands that.

His smile just gets bigger.

"You think about me when you don't want to," he coaxes, and if she didn't know better she'd swear his voice is almost sweet. "I'd bet you've even dreamed about me."

She gulps. She's helpless to refute that. Suddenly, her mind is flooded with images she's fought hard to forget: his breath on her lips, hot and entirely too welcome; his mouth crashing down on hers, so fast and hard that she had neither the time nor the inclination to stop him; the breathless moan she let out as he found her neck with startling dexterity…she _really_ wishes she hadn't had a very vivid dream about him yesterday.

Her cheeks flush of their own accord, and she bites her lip. She literally has no retort.

He looks so hopelessly triumphant that she gripes at him, "Oh, get on with it for God's sake!"

He grins, leaning closer. "Oh, I'm just getting started, sweetheart," he assures her, and she finds herself shaking because somehow, some way, he puts her on edge in a way no one else ever has. Of _course_ she's attracted to him. What sane woman with a heartbeat wouldn't be?

But that doesn't mean she's going to forget what a _jerk_ he seems to be.

His eyes become darker and darker, and she has no idea what game he's playing, but she's mesmerized. "And right now…" he concludes, his voice soft and intensely cajoling, so convincing that she just about sways on her feet. "You want to kiss me."

He leans toward her, that trademark smile lighting up his beautiful face, and his lips are hovering over her, and he smells of mint and cornflowers and leather, so intoxicating that she doesn't move away, doesn't shove him, push him, and she's worried that if he comes any closer, she's going to throw caution to the wind and kiss him into oblivion and never look back, never run anywhere but with him because he's perfect, and she wants him, wants _this_, and my God, what is she going to tell Stefan, how is she supposed to –

She's terrified of what's about to happen. She can't do this. She can't kiss Damon; she's with Stefan. But if the blue-eyed demon keeps sweeping towards her, God help her but she _will_ kiss him.

So she does the only thing she can think of.

She pulls back and slaps him.

…

When his head finally swivels back around, she's surprised (but of course she shouldn't be) to find that he doesn't look pissed-off or even offended; he looks…amused. His black eyes glitter, as if in laughter.

(He's thinking that thank _God_ she has fire in her.)

She growls in aggravation. It feels like nothing she does ever gets through to him.

She crosses her arms over her chest angrily. "Let's get one thing straight."

He waits dutifully, and her eyes dilate. This feels so weirdly…wrong. And yet, she has to do it.

"I am _not_ Katherine," she reminds him, somewhat needlessly she hopes. Because can't he distinguish her from the girl of his past by now? If not, then they have much bigger problems than his misconception that she's _attracted_ to him.

She means, really. As _if_. (She hates lying to herself, but oh well. Desperate times call for desperate measures.)

But his face falls, and she immediately sobers. He gives an unexpectedly cute half-smile. "I know," he says sourly, bitterly, and she can't help but believe him.

She stares at him for a long moment, the deep timbre of his voice resounding steadily in her ears. She knows she should probably attempt to pacify him, apologize for whatever happened between him and Katherine. But she can't bring herself to.

So she just walks away. And all the while, she ignores the dull ache in her heart.

…

The words linger in her mind for hours after he tries to kiss her.

_I am not Katherine_.

No, she doesn't suppose she is.

But sometimes, she wishes she could be.

(Maybe then she'd understand this frustrating boy.)

_tbc_

* * *

**Reviews are like candy to a writer, and I have an incurable sweet tooth.**

**Now come on, that was good enough to warrant a review, wasn't it? :)**


	2. Dream Once More

**A/N: Thank you all _so much_**** for the awesome reviews – the response has been overwhelming! We didn't quite get to 15 reviews, but I promised you an update today and an update you shall get :) Be warned: ****_much_**** angstier than the last chapter. Not irrevocably so, but definitely sadder and angrier. Always necessary in the journey towards Delena, of course!**

**This slap is from 1x07, Haunted. We've already seen this moment, but I extended it and fleshed it out. Enjoy, thank you for reading, and please don't favorite/story alert without reviewing!**

_Your big dream is crashing down and out your door  
Wake up and dream once more_

The second time she slaps him, she wholeheartedly means it. She means it so much, in fact, that if he didn't heal so ridiculously fast, there'd probably be a crescent-shaped slit, a barely visible drop of blood, wavering on his luscious lips.

Oh. She really shouldn't have thought that about his lips, should she?

She sighs and wishes, not for the first time (and certainly not the last), that he'd never come into her life.

…

He stands before her, his lips gleaming with something she fervently hopes isn't blood (for his sake or hers). His fists are clenched, and he looks…she can't exactly say angry (and really, what reason does he have to be angry?). But regardless, the rage in his eyes borders on furious.

And strangely, she's not scared at all.

Tears stream mercilessly down her face as she disregards this cruel bloodsucker (she promised herself she wouldn't use such derisive insults, but Damon epitomizes all the reasons she would give anything to run far, far away from Stefan) and leans over Vicki. She's not crying for the girl herself; she's crying for Jeremy, who has lost too many people he loves.

And honestly, she finds it hurts all the same.

She kneels on the hard, cold ground, absentmindedly brushing at the dirt covering her once-immaculate, definitely slutty nurse costume. She bends over dear, dear Vicki, hoping that somehow she'll wake up, that somehow this is a dream.

But she raises her eyes at last, staring into the bleak night, stretching further and further until she loses herself in the uncertainty of it all, the deep doubt. This is real. No matter how much she wishes right now that she had nothing to do with Stefan and his complicated, dark, _dire_ world, she does.

(For a moment, she resents him for how much she cares about him.

But only for a moment.)

She brings herself to her feet with almost more energy than she possesses and lifts her eyes to meet the doomed Salvatore brother.

"You," she says quietly. The air is so thick with the sense of defeat that her very bones feel spongy, as if her strength might give way to her exhaustion at any moment. "You did this."

He just smirks at her, the corners of his mouth pulling up in that telltale mix of cockiness and sadistic pleasure as he gives a trite nod. "That I did." His words are lofty, unconcerned.

So devoid of regret that she wants to cry.

She stumbles backward, staggered by his easy admission even though by now she shouldn't be. She wants to shake her head, make him deny what she can't deny to herself. How can one person have so little regard for the mortality of human life, for its hallowed, consecrated, _sacred_ place in the world? How can one person care so little?

How can she care so much?

But she's too weak to fight him on this, inexplicably so, and she sinks to her knees again, her skin colliding with the scratchy concrete, a soft cringe rippling through her body.

She's surprised to find that her cheeks are damp anew with moisture. Her tongue darts out to taste her tears, and she closes her eyes as the tinge of salt floods her senses. The most acute sorrow she's felt since her parents died overwhelms her, and she lets loose a shuddering sob, clutching her chest because she's afraid the grief might rip her heart right out of her.

She feels a hand on her shoulder, warm and inviting. She instinctively turns her face up, her skin sticky and sweaty; she doesn't know why she assumes it will be Stefan, and a crushing anvil settles in her throat when all she can see is an almost ethereal blue.

The searing disappointment is painful and intractable.

"Damon," she hisses angrily, attempting to shrug him off. But he doesn't move, his eyes blazing, the weight of his fingers holding her down like some kind of sick possession. And she can't attribute the way she suddenly crumbles to anything but how _tired_ she is.

Every sob is wrenched from her roiling body like the grueling process of blowing glass, and her breath struggles to sustain her, catching in the heave of her stomach as she doubles over in pain. It's difficult to stop the rocking back and forth or even slow it; she oscillates between the sweet curve of Vicki's corpse and the concrete threshold, red and flowing and devastating.

"Do you –" He begins, his hand gripping her skin, digging into her so harshly that it is almost pleasant. He growls in frustration, as if he's trying to tell her something but can't quite get the words out. "Do you need –" He breaks off, his voice quivering, a sound so unfamiliar, so unlike this psycho killer, that her eyebrows nearly shoot up into her hair line. He doesn't move his hand.

But she's not really listening to his exasperated sighs, or else she hears the words but lets them create a forceful, fiercely protective bubble around her. As long as she doesn't interpret his meaning, she's safe.

She is quiet for a long moment; he hovers, unsure how to cope with a girl this distraught. (He's never been good at emotions, not since Katherine.) But just as quickly, just as suddenly as all the tears before, a fresh wave of anguish penetrates her careful defenses, and she lunges forward, clutching at Vicki's still body as hysteria engulfs her.

She doesn't know how one soul, one heart, can possibly suffer this much gut-wrenching trauma. She feels brittle, fragile, and also very much like a young woman who wants nothing more than to be a toddler again, to smile with abandon and run through the backyard and kiss boys behind the library shelves.

But she knows that such a fate is just short of impossible, so she lingers there a little longer, indulging in smothering Vicki with her bleeding heart. She feels like a cutter must: every sob is quite literally heart-splitting, but cathartic all the same.

Finally, she withdraws from the girl she might have learned to love one day. She pulls back slightly, kisses her brother's love gently on the forehead, studies the source of all this break. Her cheeks are glistening.

She wills verve into her atrophic limbs and stretches herself upward, a groan escaping her mouth even as she reminds herself to be strong. Damon's hand rises with her, and despite how much she hates him, she doesn't push him away.

She holds his gaze, delving into that completely surreal color and hoping that just this once, he will turn around. That just this once, he'll leave her alone.

But he does nothing of the sort, of course.

She shakes her head in disbelief. "How can you not care?" She asks, her voice scratchy with tears. She is truly baffled.

He shrugs nonchalantly. "It's what I am."

The words don't really surprise her; he's never pretended to be anything other than the monster he is. And she wants to sulk, wants to scream at him that he could be like Stefan if he tried, wants to hit his chest and yank herself away from this murder scene, wants to yell and cry and condemn him forever.

But as she thinks about how much she resents him, a steady film clouds over his eyes (she realizes with uneasiness that she already misses the omnipresent tinge of black), and the heat of those orbs on her face becomes too…she can't quite describe it. She no longer has a voice to rely on, since her throat is raw and biting, so she just stretches her arms behind her and gropes for something stable to hold onto, watching as his hand falls without resistance.

"Go," he grits out, hard and almost pleading.

She peers at him curiously, marveling at how quickly her tears have dried on her face (she thinks she might cry again). She wishes she could explain the sudden flare of darkness in the older Salvatore's eyes, but she is overcome by a strange lightness of being, a strange _un_feeling. Something like ice creeps into her bloodstream.

She shivers. "Why?" She asks suspiciously, even as a foreboding seems to reverberate in the air.

He just glares at her, breathing heavily and raggedly; he looks remarkably unlike himself, neither suave nor smooth (he is not acting at all like the Damon she knows). "You're bleeding," he manages to choke out, his eyes predictably fixing on the offensive spot.

Confusion is the only thing she feels during the long silence that follows, the long moment of waiting. And then comprehension dawns on her.

She looks down at her arm almost involuntarily, and, somehow, she's not surprised to find a jagged wound marring her olive skin. She is indeed bleeding, and profusely. Her elbow is covered in thick, congealing blood. The pain pulsing beneath her skin has nothing to do with the cut that will surely leave a scar, but dizziness threatens to overtake her anyways.

She closes her eyes. "Okay," she whispers, wary of surrender but understanding it's probably necessary. "I'll go."

A sigh of relief leaves that perfect mouth, clear and weak with gratitude, and she realizes with a shock that he's been breathing through his teeth for as long as she's been falling apart. His restraint and discipline impress her, but nothing can change how disgusted she is at him.

She takes an unexpected step towards him, and he thrusts his hands in front of him as if in self-defense. (Funny. Like he would ever need to defend himself against _her_.) Her lips curl up in a sardonic smile at the sheer ridiculousness of the situation.

"Thank you," she murmurs, and she thinks she might mean it half-heartedly. He could kill her right now. He could sink his teeth into her neck and drain her of every drop of blood in her feeble body. He could even turn her into a vampire. But he's giving her a chance to get away. He's letting her go.

He's fighting against his every instinct.

So she allows herself a brief inhale of the intoxicating scent that only he could pull off, a combination of leather and cigar and some kind of mint that assaults her senses and leaves her more breathless than she would like to admit. Because somehow, some way, she's grateful to him for sparing her life. (Even if he won't spare anyone else's.) She pulls herself together and smiles weakly at him.

He slowly lowers his hand, unable to conceal the bewilderment (and slight gratification, she guesses) that reveals itself on the planes of his admittedly beautiful face. "For what?" He whispers, and there's so much wonder in that velvet voice that she almost regrets what she's about to say next.

But she reminds herself that he is the sole reason (she can't bring Stefan into this, she just can't) why the light in her brother's eyes is sure to die tonight.

So she draws herself closer still and raises her face to his, as if ready to touch her lips to his. He smirks at her a little, leaning towards her as if maybe he's been waiting for this chance since she started dating his little brother. She stills, waits.

And then:

"For being such a monumental _dick_," she sneers, stepping back harshly and infusing her words with all the hatred and the indignance and the _pain_ she's been holding inside for far too long.

His mouth just about drops open, pure astonishment flickering through those blank eyes. He seems on the verge of saying something, and she doesn't think she can stand to hear his voice again (she's afraid she will break even further, because he's sure to sound hurt and vulnerable and that just might turn her world upside down), so she takes a deep breath, and she leans back and she –

She slaps him. Just like that. And then she turns and walks away.

He doesn't even call after her.

But then, she doesn't know why she expects him to.

…

Later, she stands on her porch, tears straining eagerly, restlessly against her taut eyelids. She doesn't know how a night that started out so magical has ended so disastrously.

Vicki is dead.

She doesn't know how it happened. She literally cannot comprehend how Vicki became a vampire, and she doesn't understand the sequence of events that led to the pretty girl's unfortunate demise. She just doesn't get it.

And honestly, she's not sure she really wants to understand the mechanics. Eternity (even if it's an eternity spent with Stefan) is not a future she wants for herself – no kids and no white picket fence and no growing old together while rocking their grandkids. She's not a hopeless romantic, but she does dream about finding her soul mate and dieing a natural death. And maybe Stefan is her soul mate, but that's only half of the equation.

The point is, it doesn't really matter who made Vicki into this…(she won't say monster out of respect to her boyfriend, but she's certainly thinking it) whatever she was. It doesn't really matter who killed her.

Vicki is dead. Vicki is dead, and Jeremy is a mess.

Elena has always been viciously protective over Jeremy. She supposes it comes from being his older sister, and her affection and concern only intensified when her parents died. She's all he has (he was all she had for a long time), and she won't let him suffer. And this…this is too much for her.

She's crying, great big racking sobs that shake her body and make her heart hurt. She doesn't know how to fix this for her baby brother. She doesn't know if she _can_.

So she turns to Stefan, who's standing there next to her like a good supportive boyfriend. He looks so incontrovertibly helpless that she fights the urge to slap him for being so useless.

But then, she's already slapped one Salvatore brother tonight.

"Compel him," she demands fiercely, her lower lip trembling. She doesn't think she can stand seeing Jeremy so desolate, like his entire world has crashed down on top of him, blocking out every single ray of light. She needs him to get over this, or she'll fall apart herself, and then…she can't think about that.

Stefan takes a step towards her, his eyes watering. "Elena," he whispers, reaching out a hand to touch her cheek; she flinches almost involuntarily and dives out of his reach.

"No," she asserts, shaking her head as if that will make this whole painful thing go away. "I need you to make him forget."

His expression is so sad that she already knows what he's going to say.

"I'm not strong enough," he explains quietly, and maybe under different circumstances she would notice that he sounds ashamed of his weakness, but not tonight. "I probably can't even do it. And if I did, there's no telling whether it would stick."

She snarls at him, feral and bleeding, like the puncture holes ripped through her very core. "I don't believe you," she bellows, pounding his solid chest with her fists that don't seem to do nearly enough damage. "You're just resisting on principle, you just think it's wrong, and I'm telling you I don't _care_, Stefan, I don't –"

"I'll do it."

The voice is cocky, that easy shade of arrogant she recognizes. The words are also calm and sincere, bored, angry, determined…it's a litany of emotions she knows she doesn't even have the right to attribute to him.

And really, it can't be anyone other than him.

She slowly turns to face Damon. "You will?"

If he's shocked at the pure wonder spiraling across her face, he doesn't show it. She's not surprised; he's always been a master at concealing whatever feelings he probably doesn't even have. He never has much expression at all, besides that trademark smirk that annoys the hell out of her.

"Of course I will," he assures her smoothly, his strikingly blue eyes ripe with something she can't identify. "I'm strong enough 'cause I eat humans. You know, no big deal."

She glares at him, but she can't muster much anger. He's offering to _save_ her brother, save him (save her) in almost every way possible. She is so grateful that she has to bite her lip against the urge to hug the living daylights out of this impossible boy.

He strolls towards her ever so casually, scratching his nose as if this whole thing has no effect on him. "What do you want him to know?" He asks nonchalantly, but she thinks he sounds somewhat concerned (oh, as if – she knows better).

It strikes her that she doesn't even hate him for what happened tonight anymore.

She peers at him anxiously. There are bags underneath his eyes, which she really didn't even know was possible. She regains her composure with much effort and grits out, "I want you to tell him that Vicki had to go away. I want you to tell him that it wasn't his fault and he shouldn't look for her. Tell him that he should move on."

He stares at her for a long moment, his eyes sweet, as sweet as the soul she _has_ to believe he has, if only for her sanity. The air feels bright with tears.

He comes closer, ignoring the way she instinctively dodges him. "Are you sure?" he asks softly, his voice hollow and strangely empty. (It reminds her of his words about killing Vicki, and she steels herself for the imminent pain.)

She deliberates for a moment. She never thought she'd let a vampire compel her brother. It is so wrong, so wrong in so many ways, so _manipulative_. She can't imagine how Jer would feel if he ever found out that she went to such great lengths to cover up something so indisputably distressing.

But she startles herself. Because suddenly, she just doesn't care. If he wakes up in a year and remembers how fully she betrayed him, at least he will have still escaped the grief and the horror of what happened to Vicki. He'll have had time to mourn her. It won't be as bad.

At least, that's what she tells herself.

So she bites back her tears and fumbles for the word that could set her brother free.

"Yes," she finally breathes.

Damon stares at her for a long moment, a gut-wrenching, impassioned moment.

And then he disappears into her house.

…

She nervously paces back and forth on her porch, snaking her arms around herself and compulsively counting the tears she has shed. This feels so wrong.

But if it can help Jeremy, she's not sure much else matters.

…

When Stefan comes up behind her and rests his chin on her head, it occurs to her that throughout this long, painful night, she has not been able to blame him for Vicki's death. He was the one who drove the stake through Vicki's heart. He was the one who _stopped_ her heart. And yet…Elena is not mad at him for it. She cares about him too much for that. And besides, he did it to protect her.

So she lets out a shaky breath and whispers into the night, knowing he will hear her, "I should hate you."

He kisses her hair, the movement so unreasonably sweet that she leans against him purely out of instinct.

"I should want to run away from you," she continues, tears erupting in her eyes again. "I should want to break up with you. I should want to put as much space between us as possible. But…" She trails off, letting her eyelids flutter closed. "I can't lose the way I feel about you."

He just nods, delicately wrapping his arms around her. She trembles in his hold.

The words are true. She knows they are.

She can't explain why it feels like she's lying.

…

She is still in Stefan's arms when she realizes how lucky she is. She didn't die tonight. She could have. But she didn't.

She thinks about Damon for a moment. He has guided her in the wrong direction so many times, told her things that were only half-true, ruined any chance of a reconciliation between them. But she could not be more grateful to him right now.

She might even forgive him for all the pain he's caused.

But she can't bring herself to speak the words, to apologize to him. She doesn't really regret slapping him, because he certainly more than deserved it. But everything he's doing for Jeremy tonight…she figures he's the kind of guy who will mess everything up and then do his _damndest_ to fix it.

She doesn't know if she can fault him for that.

He walks out of the house finally, nods slightly at her. "It's done," he confirms, and she hears the vulnerability in his voice even though she doesn't want to. Her eyes water. They're all going to be okay. He made sure of that.

She steps away from Stefan. "Thank you," she whispers.

And God, she means it.

Damon hesitates for a moment, just the sliver of a memory, but it's enough for her to wonder what might have been between them if he hadn't gotten on her bad side.

She sighs, her eyes locking on his. She doesn't want to take back her act of desperation, an act that sprung entirely from that black and bitter corner of her heart. He hurt her tonight, badly. She knows he didn't mean to. She knows it's just in his nature to go around killing people. She knows he might have even been angry and hurt (always) by the inevitable realization that she will never be Katherine, that he was in pain and uncontrollably, wildly took it out on the nearest person.

And really, she knows she shouldn't be surprised or even upset, because he has never pretended to be anything but a ruthless, cold-blooded killer.

But she can't help it. She's hurt. It _hurts_. There's a throbbing in her chest, in her heart probably (although she would be naïve to include the words Damon and heart in the same sentence).

He starts to walk away, down the steps and towards the sidewalk, away from her, clearing his throat almost coldly. He purposely doesn't look at her, and she winces. Obviously she hates him. That's a given.

But she's not sure she wants it to be this way. She's not sure she wants to dismiss him – or be dismissed by him – quite so nonchalantly, so uncaringly.

And yet, he just keeps walking away.

She sighs, heavy and apologetic. For a brief, trembling moment, she wishes she hadn't slapped him. She wishes he hadn't turned Vicki into a vampire and brought her to this unfortunate point, driven her to an act she wishes she'd never had a cause to go through with. Point blank, she wishes she hadn't meant it.

She wishes she hadn't meant to hurt him, wishes she hadn't meant to pierce him with her self-righteousness and how unbelievably, indescribably _selfish_ he was. She wishes she hadn't meant to show him how forcibly, how deeply he broke her.

But she did mean it. She meant it, and she can't take it back.

She meant it with all her heart.

_tbc_

* * *

**Thank you all so much for reading! I'd love to know how you felt about this chapter :)**


	3. Don't Hold This War Inside

**A/N: As always, thank you for all your reviews! I apologize that this update took two days as opposed to one, but…homework homework homework! I rushed this a little for you guys, so sorry if it shows, but I wanted to get it up tonight. Also this is really really long…two chapters to go after this one :)**

**This is a scene that didn't happen (but oh, how I wish it did) in 1x16, There Goes The Neighborhood. Enjoy, thanks for reading and please don't favorite/story alert without reviewing!**

_Please take your time  
But you've got to know that I am taking sight  
Oh, you look good with your patient face and wandering eye  
Don't hold this war inside_

The third time she slaps him, she sees stars and it's because of how goddamn breathtaking he looks.

He's laughing, fairly heaving back and forth, clutching his sides like his amusement might tear him apart, and she hates him for it. Because even though she loves how _human_ he looks right now, he's laughing at her expense. So she raises her hand and she leaves a mark on his skin.

And she stalks away and wishes he wasn't so easy to care about.

…

She sighs, leaning her head against the familiar doorframe. Truthfully, she's not sure how she ended up here – come to think of it, she's not sure why she's even _here_ in the first place. (That seems to be happening to her a lot lately.)

Really, she has no idea what's going on.

Well, she could start with the fact that that double date was such a monumental disaster. She always knew Caroline would have a hard time with Matt – or vice versa, since Caroline is a bit of a handful – considering she herself dated him for forever and that's not exactly an easy past to get over. But she thought Caroline had finally relinquished the petty jealousies.

Well, apparently not.

What's striking about the whole distasteful situation is her actual relationship with Matt. She loves him, of course; she'll probably always love him. But she was an entirely different person when she was with him. And really, she doesn't think she'll be that person ever again.

She thinks that maybe too much has changed for that.

And she guesses she's here because she needs to hear Stefan tell her he loves her. She needs to hear him tell her that it's going to be okay, that she's going to get through this. She needs him to wrap his arms around her and hold her tight. Because right now, he's the only thing keeping her sane.

She hates how ridiculously _dependent_ that makes her sound. But after everything that's happened lately, she's not sure she cares.

When there's no answer at the door (she's knocked a few times, and usually Stefan can sense her presence anyways), she huffs a tired breath and decides to just go in. It's not like she's an intruder; she practically lives here these days. With Katherine's return imminent and the tomb vampires on the loose, her house hasn't felt safe in a long time.

She opens the door and strolls easily through the majestic house, calling out with love in her voice (love in her heart), "Stefan?"

But the grand living room is strangely quiet, and she can't help the sense of foreboding that seems to creep at the back of her neck. Something feels very, very wrong.

"Stefan?" She pleads again, her voice shaky this time, the word unsure and reaching, hoping for reassurance. None comes, of course, and she doesn't know why she expected her dashing boyfriend to come sweeping in and save her from whatever danger is always lurking around the corner.

Oh God. When did she become the damsel in distress?

She shakes her head ruefully, continuing to wind her way through the many rooms in the enormous house. She feels on edge, restless, even though she doesn't really know what she's looking for – if Stefan were nearby, he would have heard her already.

So of course, she is completely taken aback when she happens upon a sight that kind of hurts her eyes at first.

Predictably enough, it's a half-naked Damon (she vaguely wishes he walked around shirtless more often) leaning against the wall, kissing some poor woman mercilessly, his lips tugging at hers relentlessly, his chest heaving with the only exercise he ever gets.

Elena is about to turn away in disgust (Damon's sexual conquests are not exactly new, and normally the sight – not to mention the sound – just makes her sick to her stomach) when the blue-eyed vampire lets out a low moan, the note so _sexy_ that her knees go weak. She suddenly realizes that sweat has broken out on her forehead.

She stands stock still, her heart racing as she takes in the taut muscles straining in his arms, the sounds emitting from the back of his throat like he was made to take women for his own. It's so bad and so _wrong_, but she can't seem to tear herself from the sordid scene.

And for a moment, she lets herself imagine that she's the one in his capable arms, that she's the one he's moving those practiced lips against, that she's the one he's burying himself in and pressing further and harder and oh, oh, _oh_!

She lets out a strangled noise, and Damon's head snaps up, his eyes immediately zeroing in on her rapidly beating pulse. "You like?" He asks cockily, smirking at her as she struggles to tell him off.

Further shock registers in her eyes when she realizes that Damon was just making out with _Matt's mom_.

(Further shock and that green emotion she won't give a name to, but she'll analyze that later.)

"Oh my God, ew!" She squeals, turning on her heel in a flurry of long hair and red cheeks. "I can't believe you're making out with Matt's mom! That's so wrong and messed up and _disgusting_ and I'm really uncomfortable right now, so I'm just gonna leave you to it, because you know, you really should keep going –"

She keeps rambling, aware that she's being completely nonsensical but not giving a damn; she just stares at her feet and concentrates on getting herself the _hell_ out of there. She doesn't know why her skin feels so unquenchably hot, or why there's this insistent pounding in her chest (dangerously close to her heart, but she refuses to include feelings in the equation) that, frankly, borders on pain. She doesn't know why she feels like the sight of Damon kissing another woman is burned permanently into the back of her eyelids.

She just doesn't know.

So she runs. She runs away, and she runs fast and hard and desperately. And if she weren't so intent on escaping all these feelings she's been trying to avoid, she'd probably notice Damon slinking behind her, buttoning his shirt hastily and narrowing his eyes like he can't wait to get her alone.

She'd probably turn around and yell at him to leave him alone, if she saw him. But she doesn't see him.

So she just keeps running.

…

When he finally catches up to her, she thinks she might be crying, but she doesn't understand why.

His eyes are softer than she thinks she deserves, considering she just threw a fit that could rival those of The Real Housewives. He saunters toward her like he has all the time in the world; she swallows with some difficulty.

Swallowing is always difficult around him.

(And _yes_, she caught the sexual innuendo. It was kind of intentional.)

"Hi," she greets him weakly, brushing her hair tentatively out of her face. She thinks she might be able to laugh at what a child she's being, if not for the fact that she's being so damn _pathetic_. (But then, she's not surprised he reduces her to this frail version of herself.)

But he either doesn't notice, or he doesn't care. Because all he does is come closer, and closer, until she's sure the only two ways out of this are to kiss him or kill him.

She can't do either. So she waits.

"Elena," he whispers urgently, at last, and she wonders if he can tell that there are insistent tears blooming in her eyes (she really has no idea why), "I need to know what just happened."

She stares at him blankly. She's not understanding whatever he's trying to imply. (Well, of course she understands. She would just rather put off the confrontation for as long as possible.)

"What do you mean?" She asks dumbly, her voice small and flat and so unlike herself that she worries for a moment, worries that she has officially lost the fire he once affectionately called her "Katherine side."

(She doesn't want to be anything like her evil doppelganger, but somehow he makes it sound like a good thing.)

He barks in pure exasperation, shaking her slightly (but still gently; it's as if his first instinct is always, always, to take care of her). "I _mean_," he clarifies with exaggerated emphasis, "I need you to explain to me why you just went batshit on me when you saw me with Kelly."

She scrunches her nose up in disgust. "You're talking about Matt's mom?" Somehow, she can't bring herself to refer to her by her first name; it would just make that weird memory so much _stranger_.

Damon nods patiently, still looking visibly baffled. "Yes, exactly."

She sighs. "I didn't go batshit," she grumbles absentmindedly, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear; she doesn't see his mouth go dry, or notice that his heart would be hammering loud enough for her to hear, if he had one. "You just caught me off-guard is all."

(It's moments like these when she wishes she were a better liar.)

He shakes his head, refusing to be sidetracked or fooled. "Elena Gilbert, don't you dare lie to me," he warns, those predatory instincts rearing their sometimes-beautiful-but-mostly-utterly-terrifying heads.

She peers at him curiously. What's so funny about this is that she really is telling him the truth. She yelped in shock when she saw him kissing Kelly because she was _shocked_. She knew Damon was a womanizer, but she never imagined he'd go after one of her friends' moms. Really, that's just messed up.

She figures he has to be seeing things that aren't there, because otherwise his bemusement literally makes no sense.

"I'm not lying," she promises him slowly, covering his hands with hers (it's an impulse she can't resist) as she attempts to mollify him. "It just freaked me out to see you with a woman who's basically a mother to me."

His gaze is much too piercing. "What part of seeing me with her bothered her?" he asks casually, even as his eyes burn with the need to know, just know how she feels for _once_. "The fact that I was hooking up with one of your friends' moms, or the fact that I was hooking up with someone at all?"

She staggers backward, admittedly flustered by the question. It's not something she's ever really considered. Of course she's aware of the connection between them, but she didn't think it was strong enough to drive her to the point of _jealousy_.

In fact, the insinuation is absurd.

(Never mind the fact that she wanted to be the one he was kissing.)

She smiles faux-sweetly, snatching her hands away from his. "Definitely the fact that that was Matt's mom's face you were sucking on," she surmises, her breath roaring in her throat as she realizes suddenly that he might have been spot-on with the accusation of lying. "Definitely that."

She pushes past the lump in her throat and moves to walk away from him. She needs to go collect her thoughts. Being around him doesn't help her figure out what she wants from him. It only makes it harder.

But he lets out a low curse as she turns, reaching for her arm and pulling her back in his general vicinity, so close that she's basically flush against him. She ignores the heat of his body radiating and enveloping her, instead staring at him with as much confusion as she can muster.

"What are you doing?" She asks warily, chancing a glance at his hands on her arms (she's surprised by how ridiculously _carefully_ he's holding her). She doesn't want to stand here and dissect her reaction to seeing him with an older woman. It was what it was, and she doesn't think there's much else there.

But apparently he does.

Not that she blames him, really. She practically had an orgasm just standing there watching him seduce another woman. It was such a mistake and yet somehow…she can't regret it.

He clenches his jaw and grits out, "Don't pretend you don't know what's going on."

She tilts her head (she doesn't miss the unmistakable groan that throbs in her ears). "I really don't, though," she says thoughtfully, smiling a little at his dubious expression. "Maybe you should explain it to me?"

She bats her eyelashes flirtatiously and purses her lips; it's a look that never fails to get her what she wants.

And sure enough, he throws back his head in unrestrained frustration and blurts out, his tone both a severe rebuke and a gentle plea, "You were jealous. For God's sakes, Elena, you were _jealous_!"

The dark brown of her eyes reflects her astonishment. The last word that anyone would associate with the names Damon and Elena is "jealous." First of all, she hates him. (Funny how that comes so easily, when an inch of friendship with him feels like the most divine blessing of all.) Second of all, he's a sadistic jerk who kills people just because he feels like it. Third of all, he has no regard for anyone's feelings but his own (and hers, it would appear). Fourth of all –

She stops herself when she realizes Stefan doesn't even factor into this.

So she relents. She gives in, and Damon must have thought it would take much longer, because his mouth drops open and he gropes for air like the words are ready on his lips but he can't quite give them voice.

"What do you want me to say, Damon?" She asks coolly, or maybe angrily (with him it's always hard to define her emotions), wresting herself out of his grasp and crossing her arms over her chest. Truthfully, she has no idea what she's doing. She won't admit that she was jealous, because she wasn't (she'll just ignore the hot anger that flooded her when she saw him and Kelly, ignore the tightening in her chest). And she's not going to stand here and tell him something ridiculous like how much she cares about him.

And anyways, _does_ she even care about him? That's still a bit of a gray area for her.

But it occurs to her that she might be taking this too lightly when he shoves himself closer to her and demands, "I want you to tell me the truth."

She trembles almost involuntarily. It's strange, how what scares her the most about vampires is how much she _needs_ them. The emotional pain is so much more likely, so much more terrifying, than the physical pain. She can handle being tortured. But this? She is at a loss.

She pulls herself together after a long, agonizing moment. "Why?" She asks levelly, and it feels like she's always avoiding his questions. Or maybe it's just that the questions he asks are too painful for her to even consider answering.

After another distressing silence, he closes his eyes. She worries that he might be crying, if not for the fact that she doesn't really think it's possible.

"I can't do this anymore," he breathes finally, his tone so defeatist that her entire world feels shaken. Damon Salvatore's not supposed to _give up_. That goes against everything she knows about him.

This is so wrong.

She forces herself closer to him (her every instinct screams that he might devour her whole, but somehow she's not afraid at all), grabbing his face roughly. "What?" She enquires savagely, trying to ignore that she knows exactly what he's talking about. "What can't you do anymore?"

His eyes fly open, and she finds herself taken aback, stumbling in all different directions as that knife-like blue tears into her. This is a precarious situation indeed. "This," he says simply.

She wishes she didn't understand what he's saying. She wishes she didn't know that he's basically telling her he can't be around her anymore, not when she strings him around (she can't deny it) like some sort of lovesick puppy who can't let go.

She wishes it didn't hurt so much.

She falters, breaks. "I don't know what you're talking about," she deflects insipidly, dropping her eyes in the hopes that he won't recognize her feeble evasion.

But he gently tilts her chin up, his fingers like hot, welcome silk on her chilly skin. "You do," he assures her softly, his eyes burning her very core with the heat of certainty. "You do, and you're afraid of it."

She growls under her breath, but his fingers trace the curve of her lips, swallowing the words wavering on the tip of her tongue. "And that's okay," he continues, no trace of sarcasm or wit in his voice, the words unbearably gentle, "Because I get it. I get it, Elena."

"What do you get?" she interjects hotly. She knows this is a horrible mistake, to go down this road with him. He's not going to shy away from the truth, unlike her. He's going to spit it in her face and make her confront it until she's begging for mercy. She should leave right now.

She doesn't know why she's helpless to move.

He smiles slightly, and it's the most bittersweet smile she's ever seen. "You're conflicted," he concludes softly, that ethereal blue impassive once again even as his fingers still on her cheek. "You don't know what you feel."

She holds his gaze stubbornly. "I know one thing," she grumbles in dissatisfaction. She doesn't know why she feels so incredibly apprehensive.

His eyes search hers, pleading and eager. "And what's that?" She can't believe how kind he sounds.

Wow. He's really giving her a chance to think this through on her own, without his interference. She never would have expected he could be so benevolent.

But she shakes her head. "I'm not _supposed_ to feel jealous," she reminds him pointedly.

He is quiet for a moment, and she can almost see the wheels turning in his head; he's trying to figure out how to spin this to his advantage. But he winces, and it occurs to her that he also really doesn't want to hurt her. She feels humbled by his concern.

His eyes smart finally, and she swears he's on the verge of tears. "Stop thinking about what you're supposed to do, or what you should do," he snarls, deftly moving his hands between their bodies and pulling her toward him by her hips (she falls apart at the passionate touch). Tell me what you _feel_."

She shakes her head again, lost in a haze of deception. She feels like such a fraud. She's lied to him so many times.

She supposes this is their defining moment. She can argue that she knows exactly what she feels. She can tell him that she loves Stefan and only Stefan, that it's always going to be Stefan no matter how much he changes.

But that wouldn't be the truth (or, at least, it wouldn't be the whole truth, and by now she considers half-truths worse than full-on lies). And she's tired of having to keep things to herself. She already lives in a world that practically requires secrecy, and she doesn't think she can stand another lie – especially since it's somewhat unnecessary.

So she holds his gaze even as something rips apart in her chest. "Fine," she acknowledges, albeit a little reluctantly. "Fine."

His eyebrows shoot so high that they disappear, and she smiles slightly. Then, she drops the confession that will surely change them forever.

"I feel guilty!" she shrieks, about ready to tear her hair out, and she does her best to ignore the triumphant light in those entrancing eyes, instead barreling on determinedly. "I'm with Stefan and I love Stefan, but you – you bother me and you annoy me and you kill people and you're evil and somehow seeing you with another woman kills me."

The words feel heavy in the silence. She wants to take them back, but with him it is so difficult to take anything back. Honesty with him is always excruciating, but the severity is lessened somewhat if she does it like ripping off a band-aid. She won't take it back.

She won't.

(She's terrified of _not_ feeling this way.)

She huffs a drawn-out breath. "Happy now?"

He doesn't seem to know how to answer her; his mouth has fallen open, and he looks like he's not breathing. His eyes are dark, broken. He lets his hands slip a little on her waist, making her ache with a desire she didn't even know she had.

His eyes suddenly revert to their expressionless, perennially motionless natural state (she doesn't know whether she's happy about it). "Not even remotely."

She just stares at him.

Finally, she narrows her eyes suspiciously. "And why not?" She inquires, taking a step towards him almost involuntarily. She hopes that he doesn't ask her how she feels about him. He wouldn't like her answer, and besides, it'd probably take her an hour to explain.

He shakes his head darkly, bracing both hands on the wall behind her. Her breath hitches when she realizes he effectively has her pinned, and her body immediately stiffens. Being this close to Damon always puts her on edge, although she tends to avoid contemplating why.

(Probably because it wouldn't be the answer she's hoping for.)

He drops his eyes, hanging his head almost shyly (if shy was even a word in his vocabulary). She would think he's just staring at her boobs, except he's not making a single snide comment. He seems too emotional for that.

Strange.

And then, a single drop of moisture falls on her chest, hot and sad. She can't dispel the lump that forms in her throat when she realizes that the water has fallen from his eyes.

Damon is crying. Damon Salvatore, king of the unfeeling smirk, is _crying_.

What has she done?

"You're lying," he repeats at last, not meeting her prodding gaze, and out of some innate maternal instinct, she captures his head in her hands and sweeps her fingers through his perfectly coiffed hair. Like every other part of him, his black locks are undeniably magnificent.

And really, she should bristle at the implicit accusation that maybe she's not telling the truth. She should be upset that he is so pretentious as to assume that she has actual, definable _feelings_ for him.

But instead, all she feels is a spine-tingling kind of regret that makes no sense. Because she has no idea what it is she regrets so much. She just knows she's sorry.

"I'm not lying," she reassures him softly, yet again, and she almost loses her balance, because that in it of itself is a lie. Of _course_ she's lying. Frankly, there's no other option.

He doesn't seem pacified, but he also doesn't raise his head. He just moves slowly, deliberately, his forehead coming into contact with hers so naturally that it doesn't even occur to her to move away.

Her heart rate speeds up. How did they go from kind of making fun of each other to revealing things they never meant to reveal?

"Tell me how you feel," he coaxes for probably the hundredth time since she's known him, the words low and undeniably seductive.

She swallows. Oh, if only it were that easy.

She thinks about this for a moment. She could tell him how she feels, she really could. She could tell him the truth. There's nothing stopping her. (Except, of course, her sense of right and wrong, but she could ignore that if she wanted to.)

She could tell him that sometimes she wishes she had Katherine's evil streak, just so she could live with herself for having both of them, because as time goes on she realizes that neither one of them is enough. She could tell him that Stefan has gotten her through so much, but when _he_ looks at her, she feels like she could spend eternity with him and never miss her humanity. She could even tell him that if she believed in fate, it would be so obvious that she's meant to be with him, the consequences be damned.

But she doesn't believe in fate. And she certainly doesn't believe in hurting the dearest brothers she knows just because she can't make up her mind.

So she figuratively and literally pushes the elder Salvatore away. (It hurts, but then, she was never naïve enough to think love doesn't hurt.)

"I love Stefan," she tells Damon curtly, ducking cleanly beneath the protective captivity of his arms. She trails her hair in front of her face because it's easier than looking at him.

His head snaps up, a wounded, scared expression flitting and diving and just about blinding her with its pure pain. She can't see those eyes, and somehow that makes it worse.

"You love Stefan?" He repeats bitterly, and she's surprised by the sheer longing in his voice.

He really wanted to believe it wasn't true.

She sighs. "I care about you," she says honestly, hovering slightly next to him, raising her gaze, unsure whether she should touch him. His eyes are burning, and she feels like her temperature has risen so high that she's afraid he's going to pounce on her, drain her of the blood rushing into her cheeks. But he doesn't even look at her burning skin.

Add another bullet to the list of Reasons Why She Can't Hate Damon Salvatore.

"I really do," she reiterates hesitantly, her hand reaching out to touch his cheek slowly, cautiously, worried he will dodge her.

And sure enough, he grimaces with an almost feral curve of his lips, slapping her hand down cruelly. She flinches involuntarily.

Her eyes must show her vulnerability, her hurt, her shock, because he wars with himself for a moment, conflicting emotions fighting for dominance on the planes of his altogether too attractive face.

She's sad when he decides to disregard her, but she doesn't know why she expected anything else.

"What do you want from me?" He spits out, his hand somehow grabbing tightly onto hers.

She resists the urge to lean away, even as he leers over her. She knows what he's doing. He's being purposely mean. And he's doing it because he's hurt.

She stands her ground. "I want you to give up," she tells him hoarsely, ignoring the tears leaping incessantly at her throat.

His eyes widen in horror. "Give up?" He echoes, the words unsteady, unsure, as if he's trying them out on his tongue. He doesn't seem to understand what she's asking of him.

She nods boldly, squeezing his hand. A flurry of warmth settles in her chest, pleading with her to stop this nonsense; she ignores it even as something cracks within her. "Give up on me," she murmurs simply, and she's afraid she might actually mean it. "Give up because we won't get anywhere until you do."

He just gapes at her.

She sighs. The words are heavy in the air, clouding her thoughts. She feels like maybe she's assumed too much. He never actually said he was harboring a secret crush on her. She just kind of concluded that he likes her (of course, she knows that's a bit of an understatement), based on all the little things he does, the hints he drops when he thinks she's not looking.

In fact, he's the most notorious flirt she's ever met, and it's not like the signs are glaring. It's subtle, really – the touch of his hand lingering just a moment too long on her waist, the weight of his eyes on her, worried and scared (although of course he'd never admit it) as she promises to risk everything, yet again, the slow burn of his voice, begging her to be more careful, to be more meek and cautious, to be more…his.

And suddenly, she knows she's not mistaken. He does harbor more than brotherly feelings for her.

He harbors _so much more_ than that.

He bites his lip. "Oh, Elena," he breathes, and he says her name like it's a caress, or maybe a prayer, and her resolve weakens, dissipates as his grip on her hand tightens to such a minute degree that her heart feels full. "Oh God, _Elena_!"

He turns away, wrenching his hand from hers like it's physically painful to be so enveloped in her without her explicit permission (for him, she realizes, it must be). "I can't do this," he whispers, staring bleakly at the dying fire, and although she recognizes the words, she knows somehow that he doesn't mean them the same way this time.

He slowly rotates his head back, looking at her over his shoulder like his body just won't cooperate. "I could give you what you asked for," he offers thoughtfully, his lips beginning to pull up at the corners (she feels gratified by the fleeting smile). "Or I could give you what you really want."

She quirks her eyebrows. She's trying her very hardest not to understand what he means. (His meaning is so clear that she's drowning in it.)

He shoots her a crooked smile, his eyes gleaming with a determination she recognizes only too well.

She crosses her arms over her chest, a futile attempt to distance herself from him. "And what makes you think you know what I _really_ want?" She asks mockingly, a challenge dancing in her eyes.

He smirks, clearly delighted with this turn of events. She scowls. She hates giving him the satisfaction of knowing he's gotten to her, but she almost…she likes how he gets her all riled up.

Death feels so far away when she's arguing with him.

"Well," he begins, and she wishes he would sneer at her or something, because now he's using his awe-inspiring vampire speed to come directly in front of her, their breaths mingling until she worries they have become one in just about every way possible (and that scares her), "I know you."

And then, of course, he says nothing at all.

What strikes her most about his words is how _true_ they are. Her anger at the liberties he's taking with her is tempered by the pleasant fluttering on her tongue. He does know her.

(He's always known her.)

But she pulls herself together. No matter the feelings he's tricked her into thinking she has (really, there's no other logical explanation), she loves Stefan. She's with Stefan. God, she doesn't even _like_ Damon!

So she juts her chin higher, holding her head imperiously. It's imperative that she wipe that smug grin off his face, because she needs him to think that doesn't affect her at all.

Even if, admittedly, it's one of the worst lies she's ever told.

"How do you figure?" She furrows her brow in the best imitation of consternation she's capable of and cocks her head questioningly.

He stares at her incredulously for a long moment, not quite believing that she's gone to such great lengths to keep up her carefully cultivated façade. And then, he laughs.

It is a loud, boisterous, unapologetic laugh, and she almost falls over with how _alive_ it is. The sound is addictive, like a drug, and she finds herself unconsciously leaning towards him, lost in the haze of how ridiculously happy he sounds.

God, she's missed that sound.

But he keeps laughing, great waves of amusement rippling through him, and she realizes with a shock that he's laughing at _her_.

And suddenly, she can finally feel what she's been trying to feel since the first day she meets him. She hates him. She _hates _him. She hates him so much that all she can see is red.

(But then, the line between hate and love is so thin that she often trips over it.)

He is belittling her problems. He is essentially telling her that her feelings, everything she's said…he's telling her that she's stupid, that she's overreacting. He is making her feel bad for denying whatever it is she feels for him, for wanting to do the right thing. He's berating her for trying to be a good person.

And after all this time, she doesn't know why she's surprised.

She doesn't know what to do anymore.

So she pulls back and slaps him. (It feels like it's the only thing she can ever do to shut him up, to make him _understand_.)

"It's not funny!" She screams at him as her hand hovers over his dear, dear face, the tears racing down her face like daggers into her heart. "How could this _ever_ be funny?"

He stares at her blankly. She shakes her head indecisively, closing her eyes. She never dreamed that falling in love would mean hurting this goddamn much.

"Don't make me feel stupid for not wanting to hurt anyone," she warns, struggling to just _breathe_. "I love your brother. Your _brother_, Damon! He's your brother. And if you can't see how important that is, then you're even more of a monster than I thought."

She steps back, her chest heaving. This feels so very wrong; those eyes of his are so hurt, so shocked, and she doesn't know how many more times she can slap him before he breaks – before she breaks, consequently.

But he sobers immediately.

"Of course it's not funny," he soothes her seriously, his hands moving to touch her face like he couldn't stay away from her if he tried. He doesn't seem angry at her for slapping him for the _third time_, and she just doesn't understand (how can he be so oblivious to all her flaws?). "That's why I'm laughing."

She shoots him a skeptical look. "What does _that_ mean?" She snaps, her hand still smarting, her eyes trained on the white, severe print marring that perfect, lovely skin.

He shakes his head, the movement so sad that it's almost a reprieve from how angry she feels. "It's so not funny that it's funny," he explains, and suddenly she knows what he means, knows that he laughs because it's easier than hurting for her, hurting like she would for him if she let herself feel how much she cares about him, even if only for a moment. "Laughing is better than pain any day."

He says it so easily, so simply, that tears spring anew to her eyes.

He shrugs nonchalantly, rubbing his eyes like he's tired – of what, she's not sure she'll ever know. It shocks her to see him slipping back into his careless persona so casually, without any qualms at all.

It shocks her even more to know that he's only doing it so she won't figure out how much he cares.

She nods slowly. "That makes sense," she says softly, and his eyes lock on hers, astonishment and pain flitting through that picturesque blue so quickly that she can't fight the moisture welling and pushing. "I don't want to feel this way either."

Words are on the tip of his tongue: words to stop her, words to save her. Words to tell her that not wanting to feel it doesn't make it go away. Words to throw in her face until she has to face the truth. Words to make this all better.

But all she does (maybe she's breaking, but she's never been an expert at breaking and this feels like too much agony to ever know the difference) is smile at him, new and fresh and distinctly tragic. She smiles and she kisses him on the cheek and she breathes against his skin.

And then she's gone.

(He wonders for hours what she meant by "this way.")

…

She doesn't cry that night. She figures there's really no point. It's not like she bared her soul to Damon or anything crazy like that. He just told her he wanted her (not in so many words, but she can read him easier than he can read her diary), and she told him it wasn't possible. That's all.

She doesn't think she made a mistake. What kind of a girlfriend would she be if she went off and kissed her boyfriend's brother?

But then, she thinks that maybe what she did do is even worse.

She admitted she might possibly in another world under different circumstances if things changed…well, she admitted she could have feelings for Damon. If things were different. If he were different.

If _she_ were different.

It's a realization that makes her feel slightly…adulterous, but also lifts her up somehow. Long story short, it's a realization that shakes her entire world.

And the next morning, she wakes up and she eats breakfast and she kisses Jenna goodbye and she drives Jeremy to school, and everything feels so _the same_ that her heart aches. But then she catches sight of Stefan, and there's something different about how her breath catches in her throat, somehow. And it hits her, slow and hard and so blessed that she wants to cry:

Subtly, subtly, things have changed. Maybe only she notices. But things have changed.

She'd give anything to know that they'll keep on changing.

_tbc_

* * *

**I love reviews, I really do.**

**...Unoriginal, I know, but still worth a review? I think so ;)**


	4. Make Me Love You Less

**A/N: Here it is, the moment I think a lot of you have been waiting for…my rendition of the Season 2 premiere! Only one chapter to go after this :) **

**Also, this is a newly revised edition of this chapter. Some of you thought that Stefan's characterization here was totally off, and some of you thought it was spot-on - can you tell writing Stefan isn't my strong suit? ;) So I decided to tweak the story to address all the concerns raised. I hope a suitable compromise has been reached!**

**Much thanks to _obsessedfairie_ for all his/her comments.**

**Enjoy, thank you for reading, and please don't favorite/story alert without reviewing!  
**

_Let go, you'll understand  
__You've done nothing at all to make me love you less_

The fourth time she slaps him, she does it because she hates him for deceiving her. And for once, it's not deception in the true sense, the easy way he lies and cheats; she doesn't slap him because of who he kills, or who he hurts, or the havoc he wreaks. She slaps him because he let her believe he was changing.

As her hand comes around, she promises herself that she's going to run far, far away from him, run away and never come back.

But the moment her fingers curl into his cheek, she realizes that she can't do it. She can't leave him behind; he's too much a part of her.

And she doesn't hate him anymore. She doesn't know if she ever did.

No. She hates herself for thinking he could ever be different.

She hates herself for hoping.

…

She cradles Jeremy's head in her hands for a long moment, sobbing the most gut-wrenching sobs as she listens anxiously to his steady breath. She cannot believe he is alive. It makes no sense.

But then, she doesn't think that death is supposed to make sense.

…

When she is certain that Jeremy's heart is really and truly beating, that this is all not just a fantasy she has concocted to spare herself pain, she stands up shakily, tears streaming endlessly, ceaselessly from her aching eyes. She finds her voice, even though she wants to double over in pain.

"I have to go find him," she says quietly, the words dead and emotionless.

There is no question who she's talking about.

Stefan's eyes tighten unmistakably. It is so unlike the way the corners of his eyes normally crinkle that she feels like he's aged ten years since Damon stormed into her room and broke whatever was left of their fragile friendship. "I'm not sure that's a good idea," he tries to persuade her, slowly bridging the distance that feels like miles between them.

She crosses her arms over her chest, but it is automatic, he thinks, automatic and familiar and intuitive. She is broken. She is broken beyond repair.

He cannot fix her.

She looks at him for a long moment, eyes glittering, lips pursed. "And why not?" She clenches her fists almost unthinkingly and dares him to give her one good reason why she can't go looking for his brother.

And really, there are so many good reasons. He realizes painfully what a horrible idea this is. Damon is not exactly in the greatest mood right now (understatement of the century, but specificity has always been his brother's forte), and he could very well lash out at Elena.

Yet again.

Of course, that's the rational reason why she shouldn't go.

But he can't lie to her; he's never been able to lie to her (that's why being with her always presented so many problems). He doesn't want her going after Damon because he knows her, and he knows how kind and caring and irrevocably _good_ she is. She will find Damon, probably keeled over in pain with a bottle of rum in his hands, and she will not be able to help herself. She will try to heal him. And he will let her.

Stefan can see it all so clearly: Damon will ask her for one kiss, just one kiss to save him (the selfish prick will manipulate her like he always does). She will look at him with tears in those soulful eyes of hers, falling apart with how hard this is for both of them. She will war with herself for a long moment. And then.

It will happen anyways. Even though she will wish with all her heart that she has the strength to do the right thing and be faithful to her boyfriend of more than a year, even though the snap of Jeremy's neck will resonate in her ears over and over again… she will kiss him. Stefan knows this.

But somehow, these two very legitimate points feel moot. First of all, he knows that no matter how angry he is, Damon will not hurt Elena. He will hurt everyone she loves and then some. But he will not hurt her.

That much Stefan is certain of.

And despite how afraid he is of Damon taking advantage of Elena...he trusts her. He knows that she won't move on from this, not really, not until she confronts the man she finally let herself put faith in. That, he realizes, has to take precedence over everything else right now.

Even his instinctive knowledge that things will never be the same if she goes looking for his brother.

So he nods at her, hoping that one day she can see that he's trying to be the bigger person for her (she deserves it, even if Damon doesn't). "Go," he whispers, sad and hopeless and resigned.

She shoots him a fleeting smile. And then she leaves, without even a backwards glance at him.

He doesn't know why he feels like he has already lost her.

…

She doesn't cry as she drives around somewhat aimlessly.

She's already wasted so many of her tears on him.

…

And really, it's not much of a search. She doesn't know why, but she knows he didn't run away. It's just not his style. He'll be where he always is.

The Boarding House.

So she storms through the door, chest heaving with something that feels potently like a raw ache she'll never be able to get rid of, and she brandishes her hands about like it will help her get through to this infuriating boy who she thinks she could very well love forever.

Yes, she just said that. She blames it on the ludicrous amount of disbelief he has put her through tonight alone. (She never wanted to have to tell him she could never love him. She never wanted to be Katherine. But it turns out that she was always, always, _always_ Katherine).

She finds him at last, eyes gazing solemnly at the raging fire, bottle of some high proof alcohol in his delicate, smooth, capable hands, of course. He doesn't notice her.

God, she needs him to.

"Damon," she breathes, and she wishes she could make it sound angrier. (But my God, all she can feel is the persistent press of his lips against hers, the endless _agony_ in those black eyes, the sheer grief in his voice as he shoved Jeremy's desires back in his face, as he…).

He says nothing.

And suddenly, without warning, without hesitation, without any sort of rational thought, she breaks. Thoroughly and completely and devastatingly. She breaks. She falls to the ground and she falls apart and she falls over the precipice he has so conveniently laid out for her.

(It is so easy, so simple, that she wonders why she hasn't done it before).

"Do you feel any regret at all?" she urges, or perhaps screams is a more accurate verb, because the question hurtles out of her, so tormented that her throat hurts with how hard it is to even speak to him.

Because my goodness, she's struggling to reconcile herself with the reality that he _meant_ to kill her only brother.

She's reeling because she hopes to _God_ that he hasn't lost his sense of brotherhood.

But he doesn't answer her. He just takes a swig from the nearest half-empty bottle of whiskey and stares dejectedly, belligerently (it's strange but somehow makes sense to her) at the wall.

It's like he didn't even hear her.

She gasps for air but imagines through the haze of pain that he must be picturing Katherine's face. That must be his priority right now, over everything else. Over _any_thing else.

Even the life of an innocent sixteen-year-old. (Never mind that Jeremy didn't actually die).

She shakes her head sadly, slowly. She thinks that this is so painful because she really believed he was changing. She really believed he cared about her, or at least for her, and wouldn't hurt her intentionally, in any way. If not for her, then at least for Stefan.

God, she believed in him, and this is what he does. He lashes out. He destroys everything that could possibly inspire this much agony in his beautiful eyes. Really, she wouldn't be surprised if he turned around and ran right now. Ran, and never came back.

She might even want that.

She falls to her knees even further, the soft carpet cushioning her, numbing her to everything but the breathlessness of this foul, nonsensical betrayal. The anguish of the fissure line vibrating in her chest is too much for her to cope with, it really is.

She thought it was the last straw when she learned Stefan was a vampire. When she found out about Katherine. When Isobel came to town. When Stefan starting drinking human blood. When he started drinking _her_ blood.

And now. When Damon, the 150-year-old vampire she was finally starting to trust, killed her brother. Her brother.

She shivers involuntarily and feels the chill of dread coat her veins. She staggers backward when he turns to face her and his eyes finally fix on her, or maybe even a point above her head. (She thinks maybe he's not ready to hold her gaze and feel everything she can't hide).

But he doesn't look like his murderous self. He doesn't seem consumed by wrath, or even the sorrow she knows he must be feeling. He literally has no expression.

She bites down, hard. She's afraid of what he looks like right now. He looks like the Damon she knew last year, the Damon who was hard and cold and sarcastic and had no qualms about hurting her feelings. There are things she misses about that Damon, of course – how quick he was to joke, for one (they're all much too serious right now), or the way his eyes used to linger on her (nowadays he keeps his gaze away because he's afraid of what it means).

"No," she whispers, her skin feeling like it might stretch itself too thin, like she might break. She doesn't want to believe that all the progress he's made is disintegrating, that he has reverted back to his old self, but the evidence is too tangible to ignore. He has flipped the switch. He is refusing to feel. "No."

She feels such hot anger at the _bitch_ who did this to him (he was finally ready to care, and Katherine tore that away from him) that she feels herself splitting down the middle, vengeance fighting heartache, tearing at her until breathing is difficult. She can't reconcile the two.

She doesn't know if she'll ever be able to.

But he just tosses that signature leer of his at her, like he always does when he's hiding other emotions brimming just beneath the surface of that lovely (she wishes it was more sarcastic) façade.

And his eyes are bloodshot. And although the red rings could be a result of excessive drinking, she squints through her endless tears and knows he's been crying. And despite herself, she takes a step forward, an instinct she can't resist overtaking her, and tells him hoarsely, honestly, "I cared about you."

He continues to sway blankly, but shock registers somewhere in his expression as he manages to narrow his eyes slightly. "Did you now?" He taunts purposely, his eyebrows just about going haywire.

She grits her teeth. "Don't play games with me," she warns, and she's terrified of how much she means the threat.

He rolls his eyes expertly. "And why not?" he coaxes, and if she didn't know him better she'd think he sounded genuine.

But she does know him better. So she glares at him menacingly and reminds him needlessly, "Because you killed my brother."

(The words are hot and unnecessary).

He scoffs, deftly ignoring her purposeful jab. Instead, he smiles. "You cared about me?" He attempts to clarify (she knows he really wants to know), the words mocking. She can tell he's hell bent on making her feel stupid for thinking he was human underneath it all. She can tell he's goading her, drawing her out so she gets angry and finally leaves him alone, alone with his alcohol and his grief. She can tell this is all just an act.

It gets to her anyways.

"Did you think you could change me?" he spits out, grinning somewhat evilly at her as her heart rate speeds up and she loses herself in how positively frightening he is sometimes, how literally _fuming_ she is. "Did you think you could save me?" He continues, and she thinks he must be oblivious to the waves of fury emanating from her, because otherwise he'd know better and shut the hell up.

But of course, he just keeps going.

He comes closer to her, his eyes emotionless, as always. "Did you think that since you're nothing like Katherine, that since you're sweet and you're warm and you _care_ about people –" He spits the words like they revolt him, and the shame is stifling – "I'd just fall for you and go back to the _pussy_ I was 150 years ago?"

He keeps rambling, ranting, whatever, every word coated with venom and designed to inflict the most damage possible. And she can only hiss under her breath, loud enough for him to hear but not loud enough for him to listen, "You don't get to do this."

And when he doesn't even flinch, doesn't even change the inflection of his voice, she just stops listening, instead beginning to concoct a plan to change all this. She has a plan, and nothing he says is going to stop that.

(But he _does_ stop her. After all, his specialty is derailing her plans).

She doesn't let herself think about what she's going to do now, what she _needs_ to do now. She doesn't think about how easily he could kill her, if he so desired, how angry he is, how volatile and legitimately crazy. She doesn't think about the strange reality that a hurt and broken Damon is much scarier than even Katherine herself.

She just doesn't care. Or maybe it's that she's afraid to care.

But either way, she walks up to him, holds her breath, searches his face for signs of regret or apology or anything that would give her pause. But he is impossibly stoic, and for once, she doesn't let herself fall into his charm.

She stands there looking at him, and it occurs to her that maybe she's grateful to him. At least he showed her this horrible side of his before she actually fell for him, before she gave him her heart like she thinks she would have. At least he ruined things now, before she became even more invested.

At least, at least, at least…at least the pain will quiet. Change color, like a bruise.

Like this wound that won't go away.

Because as she lifts her gaze to meet his, loathing floods his eyes and he cruelly informs her, "Well, newsflash Elena: You're _fucking_ my brother."

She is astonished (my God, that's not _fair_) and scarred for only a brief, excruciating, throbbing moment.

And then, she pulls back and slaps him clean across the face.

The swift crack of her palm on his cheek is sickening, and bile rises in her throat as she watches his head snap around faster than she thought feasible. Fear melts in her eyes, and she cringes, waits anxiously.

As good as that felt, she finds herself on the verge of tears. (It is the fourth time, and somehow, she regrets it the most now. After everything he has done, she regrets it).

With an exaggerated gesture, he rolls his head around and rubs his cheek, fingers massaging the fading mark marring the skin she has never been able to deny is gorgeous. He smiles at her, and it's almost, just almost, sincere. "Well, that was certainly unexpected," he says warmly, and it's like he thinks that her single act of revenge, of retribution has cleared the air, made everything better. "I didn't know you –"

"Don't," she commands dangerously. She doesn't want him to think this is over. Slapping him relieved some of her pent-up rage, but she is still irrevocably hurt. She can't so easily forget that he just demonized her relationship with his brother (or that he killed _her_ brother). "Don't pretend like we're even. We are _not even_."

He rubs the back of his neck uneasily; her eyes glaze over and she fights the blinding urge to pull him into her arms and calm these hyped-up nerves of his. The truth is, nothing has hurt more than the insinuation that she is a slut, a tease. She thought he respected her. The knowledge that he might not is like a knife tearing at the edges of her conscience.

And frankly, she doesn't know why it bothers her so much.

"Why not?" He asks dimly, and she has to admit, he sounds so earnest, so curious, that she stumbles slightly and has to remind herself who she loves.

Because really, by his twisted logic, it makes sense that a slap would equal several deaths. Several murders.

Not that she agrees with his logic. But still.

"Because you _killed_ my brother!" She repeats, and still she wishes she could sound angry, or sad, when all she sounds is hopeful. Hopeful that he didn't mean to do it, that he saw the ring. Hopeful that he really is different, despite all the evidence to the contrary.

He just shrugs. "He didn't die, did he?" The words are so casual that she's suddenly certain he's completely sober.

She sighs. To him, it is so simple. To her, all it could ever be is complicated.

She pulls herself together at last and holds his gaze haughtily. The words are on the tip of her tongue, ready to disown him forever (it surprises her that somehow she now thinks of him as her property). But in the midst of that precious ice blue, it occurs to her that saying the words would mean hurting him.

And really, she can't bear the thought of hurting him any further than he's already been hurt tonight. She doesn't know how she knows that Katherine rejected him earlier, but somehow she does.

It is the only – and she does mean only, because no matter his flaws, she knows him so very well – reason he would have come to her room like that, attacked her like that.

Broken her like that.

And so she deflates quite suddenly, quite ineffably. And she feels her face crumple, her nose and her lips and her cheeks sagging with the weight of so much misfortune.

"I cared about you," she voices quietly, bravely looking him in the eye even as she realizes he's not quite picking up on the past tense (the light in his eyes doesn't fade at all). She supposes it doesn't matter so much, because if there was ever a time when she told a half-truth, this is it.

He stares at her pensively, digesting this newfound, blatant information. He seems to have already forgotten that she hit him. In fact, he doesn't seem to know what to do with her heartfelt words, and she feels water trembling on her eyelashes, threatening to spill over and ruin the moment they've been building up to.

He sounds so goddamn _vulnerable_ when he speaks, her breath very nearly stops in her throat. "You…care about me?"

It's like everything before she slapped him didn't even happen.

There is so much disbelief in his voice, so much awe. Clearly, the notion of someone caring about him, even if only superficially (but then, the way she cares about him is so much more than shallow), is completely foreign to him.

She swallows thickly. God, she wishes she didn't have to do this. But she does have to do this, and all she can see is a white, splitting light.

"I _cared_ about you," she repeats, a bit bitterly this time, and it must dawn on him that this isn't going to be a pleasant conversation, it must hit him that caring for him is no longer a given for her, because his eyes dart about the room wildly, his legs shaking as he claws at the open air, searching for…for something. For anything.

She clenches her fists against the tide of mercy and says bluntly, more deadly than she knew she was capable of, "And all you did was push me away."

He shakes his head fervently, that fire burning brighter than ever. "No," he whispers, reaching out to her, one hand poised to brush her cheek, her lips (she won't allow that, because then she'll never run away). "I didn't –"

"You pushed me away," she reiterates hesitantly, floundering for some sign that it's time for her to let go of this eternally frustrating, eternally _mesmerizing_ boy, because he actually looks remorseful, and that's just too much. "And now you've lost –"

But he doesn't let her finish whatever it is he thinks she's about to say (she doesn't know why she's surprised). He closes the almost nonexistent distance between them in one fluid movement, and before her next breath, before her next word, leaves her lips, his hands are on her face, holding her in place and forcing her heartbeat into an erratic pace she can't control.

"Damon," she warns, and her voice breaks on the word she's wished for so long she could abhor with every fiber of her being. She can't look at him right now.

She just _can't_.

But his fingers are gentle on her skin, gentle as he hardly ever is, and his eyes are lucid and full of emotion, an emotion so pure and wild that she trembles unstoppably. He is perhaps more open than he has been since they discovered Katherine wasn't in the tomb and he didn't push her away. And she's not sure she can forsake this, this, this…how very precious this moment is.

He strokes her hair, his stripped, knowing gaze gliding over every feature of the face he recognizes as purely hers and never the demonic bitch's. She wants to close her eyes, wants to draw herself away from him. But her knees might give out beneath her, and she's unconsciously leaning towards him, feeling the heat between them but unable to quench the fire.

She loves Stefan.

The words reverberate in her head, restless and demanding, until her heart is fighting a fatal battle between the sweet sanctuary of such steadfast knowledge and the undeniable attraction here, the undeniable _pull_. She doesn't quite know what – who – will win the war, but right here, right now, she realizes that unless she walks away, she'll give in to him.

But he yanks her out of her melodramatic musings, as usual. "Elena," he croaks, smoothing her hair off her forehead with the careful attention of someone who's memorized every facet, every crevice. The word is so reverent that tears flutter nervously in her throat. "Please."

It is a plea she almost can't deny, and she just stares at him. That impenetrable blue is soft and malleable, and he brushes her forehead with his lips, imploring her to forgive him and maybe only subconsciously luring her in (if only she were that naïve). He breathes against her skin, hot and welcome and burning, "Don't give up on me."

She has no idea what to say.

She wants to forgive him. She really does. She knows he was hurt. She knows he's a severely troubled man. She knows he cares about her. She knows, she knows, she knows, she knows…

But what she _feels_ is how much she desperately wants to hate him. And that will win out every time.

He lingers there with her, waiting. Finally, he whispers tenderly, "Have I lost you forever?" The pain in his voice is so tangible that all she wants to do is hold him forever.

It's eerie, how what he's asking and what she wants are such opposites.

She squeezes her eyes shut, willing away the moisture begging for release. She knows what she has to say, knows what she _should_ say. She should tell him that yes, he lost her forever the moment he snapped her brother's neck. She should tell him that yes, she is in love with his brother. That yes, his love – or whatever it is; she's not sure he's capable of love anymore – is unrequited. That no, she will never return whatever feelings he has deluded himself into thinking he has.

But God, she's tired of lying. To herself, to him. To everyone. She's tired of pretending she's okay when she's anything but okay. She's tired of holding her breath, of waiting for the next horrible thing to happen. And most of all, she's tired of never laughing.

She misses laughing, really, misses the inexorable itch in her throat, the sound bubbling up and out of her mouth, the indefatigable, infectious, catchy giggle that, if only for a moment, made her world seem brighter.

God, she misses that feeling.

She doesn't know why being with the dark boy holding her right now always makes her laugh, or at least wish she remembered how to. Or maybe it's because he's sarcastic and he's witty and he's a shameless flirt and he pokes fun at her with no real malicious intent.

He makes her feel normal. With him, she doesn't feel like she's trapped in a world she's not sure she wants to be a part of. When he does that eye thing of his (so, so, so sexy) and cracks a joke, he's just her boyfriend's older brother who hits on her every chance he gets. It's so _high school_, really, and no matter what else he does, she's grateful to him for that, because she's missed feeling normal. With him, she's never been able to relinquish the staunch belief that one day, nothing about her life will be supernatural.

That is, until he stormed drunkenly into her bedroom, practically forced himself on her, and killed her brother.

She likes to think she is a benevolent person. But even as he caresses her cheeks with more affection than she knew he could even muster, even as he cradles her face in his hands like he'd die if anything ever ruined her skin, she realizes that this might be too much for her to forgive.

So she slowly, sorrowfully, achingly, steps back. And she just looks at him for a long moment.

There are many things about her life she wishes she could change. He has never really been one of them, although she has tried so many times to convince herself that she would be better off without him. He is a constant in her life, a saving grace. She does not want to lose him.

But he upset the fragile balance of their friendship when he started treating her differently. When he actually cared. And now that he has resumed purposely not caring, she doesn't think she has the strength to care about him.

She sighs. Without letting herself think about the inevitable break, she brings her hands to her face and painstakingly removes his touch from her skin, wincing as his eyes register pure bemusement. His gaze follows her movements as she entwines her fingers with his (she can't explain why it hurts, and the complexity makes her heart rattle around in her chest) and he looks so lost that she bites her lip hard enough to draw blood.

She feels like crying when he doesn't even notice.

She marvels momentarily at how easily he seems to have forgotten about Katherine, about her (both of them, really) telling him that she never loved him, that it was always Stefan. His attention is focused entirely on her, and she is in awe of the fact that she somehow become the one person who mattered enough to him to distract him from the woman he's spent 150 years pining after. The thought is incredibly humbling, and her chest feels tight. His fingers in hers feel too perfect.

She unclasps her hands from his, reeling as his jaw drops slightly. He doesn't know what the _hell_ she's doing right now, and he's too much of a gentleman – and too wary of her always-delicate feelings – to ask.

He swallows. She breaks.

"I don't know," she whispers fretfully, sobs beginning to rack her body with a pain she doesn't know if she can stand. "I don't know."

And she means it. She doesn't know if she can forgive him for this. She has no idea.

He opens his mouth to speak, but she wrenches herself away from him with a shriek that shatters her eardrums. She tears down the hallway as fast as she can, clutching her sides as if that will keep her together, or at least still breathing. Tears blur her vision, but she barrels toward the door anyways, knowing that if she can just get out of this godforsaken house, if she can just inhale the night air and cry to herself and –

And then he's in front of her, cutting off her route of escape and grabbing the tops of her arms. She's surprised to find that in the middle of such trauma, he still touches her with a staggering amount of delicacy.

With a staggering amount of _love_.

"Elena," he orders, and the word is cold and insistent but also much too sweet (she wonders how she can even hear all those emotions in his voice). "Talk to me."

She thrashes about in his arms instead, concentrating all her energy on trying to weasel her way out of this ridiculous _mess_. She does her best to tune out the soothing, urgent words he's murmuring in her ear, enticing and pleading and unmistakably needy, but she is helpless to resist him.

She thinks maybe she always has been.

Finally, she falls limp in his unbreakable hold, buryingher head in his chest; his arms immediately come around her, holding her close and keeping her safe. It strikes her as somewhat ironic – and maybe even a little funny, if this situation was comic at all (but it's not) – that she finds comfort in the boy who brought her to tears in first place.

But she's too distraught to care. She needs him. Not Stefan, not Bonnie, not Jeremy. She needs _him_.

She can't deny it anymore. She won't. (Even if he kills people, even if he's heartless).

And with that, she sobs brokenly, "Oh, Damon. What are we going to do?"

But he doesn't answer her. He just kisses her hair, the unfamiliar, intensely visceral gesture rippling through her body like that goddamned fissure line. And then:

"I want to fix this."

The words are barely audible, but she hears them all the same. She hears them, and she sniffles glumly, hiding in the warm cocoon of hard body and soft heart, although he eschews softness with all his might. She hears him, alright. She just doesn't know what to say. Fixing them – because fixing _this_, whatever it is, means fixing their broken friendship – might be impossible.

This is too much. He has done a complete 180 in the last ten minutes. He is back to being the Damon she trusts, the Damon who cares about her and even admits it when he has nothing to lose. He is, once again, the Damon who will apologize – even profusely if necessary – for superfluous violence.

And God, she misses that Damon. She missed him tonight, when he broke her heart into more pieces than she knew existed. And this glimpse of that Damon is too much.

He brings her wrists to his face, smothering her skin with so many kisses that her eyes roll back into her head.

"Don't," he pleads, and she can tell he's trying to reign in his apprehension, she wishes she didn't know what he means but she _does_, she does and it scares her how much she just wants to stay here, with him, forever. "Don't push me away."

The accusation is clear in his voice, and it should bother her that he's throwing her own words back in her face, but she's too distraught to rebuke him for it.

"And why not?" She asks finally, bravely, holding her head high. She wants him to be honest with her, honest like she can't be.

She figures one of them needs to tell the truth. (Even if the double standard is unfair).

When his Adam's apple bulges tellingly, she realizes he's not ready to admit his feelings yet. And really, she can't curse his stunted emotional maturity, because she is exactly the same way – if not worse.

But nothing – nothing, not the myriad of colors on the horizon, not waking up every morning with her pulse thundering in her ears – nothing could gratify her more than the sheer love shining through his eyes.

"You know why," he tells her quietly, holding her hands in his like he would a case full of diamonds, worry piercing his every movement.

She closes her eyes, a single tear pearling on her eyelashes. "I know," she promises him, and she would feel guilty about all the promises she's broken to him except for how desperately she _means_ it this time. And without even doubting herself for a moment, she instinctively reaches out to him, because she is a masochist and being so close to him when she can't have him hurts.

He leans his forehead against hers, the proximity so personal, so real, that she is unable to speak.

"I –" He begins, and what he's trying to say is so precious, so special, just _so_, that she doesn't want to hear it right now. Not after such a traumatic, intense night. Not when so much has broken.

Not after he kissed her the way he did and killed her brother.

She opens her eyes, letting her dark brown seep into his light blue. She wishes she hated him. She has always wished she hated him. Tonight would seem to be the night that would make it official, her hatred for him.

But.

"It's okay," she murmurs softly, biting her lip as the tears make their way down her cheeks (he looks alarmed, and she's touched anew by how much they both _care_). "It's okay."

And God, she means it. She has no idea how, but she means it.

He kisses her forehead, his lips colliding with her skin in a way that feels both naked and reckless. She knows instantly that he is going to tell her exactly how he feels no matter how much she protests.

She's terrified. (She'll faint if he says those three little words).

Finally, he carefully unwraps her hands from his, moving to caress the bare skin just above her hips. It's only bare because he once told her with that crooked smile that he loves her in her tiny tank tops that don't quite meet the top of her jeans, and she has to confess that ever since they've pretty much been her entire wardrobe. Regardless, or perhaps because of it, his fingers curl around her, capturing her.

Saving her.

"I care," he breathes against her skin, and it is so cliché, so resoundingly perfect that she gulps.

She can't help but answer him. "I know," she whispers, her voice breaking. Because she _does_ know. She's ignored the knowledge because it makes it easier to accept how manipulative and evil he truly is, because she hates having to confront the godforsaken duality of his personality. It's easier to pretend that he lost every shred of his humanity when Katherine broke his heart.

But in moments like this, she can't lie to herself anymore.

She turns her head just slightly, winching as his lips travel to her temple (he gets closer and closer to everything she's fought to hide from him). "I'm sorry," she whispers with a well-placed ache, because as she says it she realizes that this is a fate she never wanted for either of them.

But then, that's why they call it fate, isn't it?

He blinks rapidly, his confusion so evident that she debates her choice for a long moment, tears welling up in her eyes. "For what?" He asks, and the words are warning, bleeding.

It occurs to her that he should be the one apologizing for what happened to tonight. But somehow, she doesn't need to hear him say it. She doesn't know why she needs him to forgive her instead. But she does.

She's surprised that his grip on her hand hasn't tightened even the slightest bit. He's really giving her a choice here, and that makes it all the harder for her to tear herself away from him. He could hold her in place, make sure she doesn't leave, force her to forgive him.

But he doesn't.

She pulls back, looks at him, how dear and fragile and _perfect_. She wants to hold onto this moment forever, no matter the cost.

She leans in and wraps her arms around him. She lets herself connect with him, as she always does. He gratefully submerges in her warmth.

(And the words are low, but she knows he hears them).

"For this." And even as it burns in her throat, she steps away, moves away, walks away. Leaves.

He doesn't try to stop her. She doesn't really know whether she wants him to.

But she keeps walking, out of the room, out of the house that lately feels more like home than Jenna's. It feels suspiciously like she's walking out of his life.

It's so painful that she breaks.

Damon Salvatore has finally made her break.

(She's crying so hard, she can't see straight).

…

She's not surprised to see Stefan waiting in the driveway, but somehow, he's the last person she wants to comfort her right now (it's petrifying, the realization that she wants Damon's vintage musk surrounding her instead).

Stefan's eyes widen when he notices that she's crying. "Elena," he calls out, his voice so many shades of worried that she has to resist the urge to roll her eyes. "What's wrong?"

She doesn't look at him. She just walks past him. She thinks she needs to be alone.

But.

"What _happened_?" Stefan roars, grabbing her arms almost too roughly as she moves away and spinning her around to face him (she remembers Damon's fingers gripping her wrists, and suddenly she's crying again). "What did he do to you?"

She quakes uncontrollably. He's growling at her, his fangs almost showing, and his usually placid green eyes are violent and roiling. He looks like he's on the verge of…something, and she takes an uncertain step backward. She knows that if she tells him the whole truth, he'll go into the house and kill – or at least come very close to killing – Damon.

And my God, she can't let that happen. (She doesn't bother to wonder why).

So she shakes her head absentmindedly, staring off into the black, black night and trying to quell her tears. She hopes her boyfriend (she doesn't have a pleasant physical response to that classification – her palms start to sweat and another round of hot tears prick the back of her eyes) will assume that she's crying because his older brother meant to her younger brother and she's not over it.

And besides, that's definitely part of it.

But Stefan is relentless. She realizes she shouldn't have expected him to believe her, to believe that Damon didn't harm her (at least, not in the way he's thinking), but it is only when he stalks past her and toward the boarding house that she really _wakes up_.

And with that, she is off and running, trying to save the one person who can make her laugh.

With a bit of luck, Elena keeps pace with the first boy she ever gave her whole self to and manages to grab him forcefully by the arm.

"Don't," she beseeches him, and she wishes her memories weren't so goddamn reliable, because she doesn't want to remember the way she said that word to Damon. "Don't do this."

Stefan keeps walking, turning his head so he can glower at her. His gaze is plainly and definitively frosty, and he spits out with more acid than she expects, "And why not? Do you _love_ him?"

She flinches, stopping dead in her tracks. Her heart feels like a fist of ice has been plunged through her chest; she can't breathe.

What the hell has gotten into him?

She decides she won't even acknowledge the accusation implicit in Stefan's question. (Besides, she doesn't know the answer anyways). She doesn't have time to argue with her boyfriend about her feelings for his brother. He's about to go seriously injure – or worse – someone who matters very much to her. She's not about to debate this.

"That's not the point," she deflects briskly, carefully averting her eyes; she doesn't want to know – doesn't want _Stefan_ to know – what emotion is dwelling in that brown. She walks ahead of him instead, holding her head high and hoping only somewhat futilely that he doesn't follow her.

But he grips her waist possessively, savagely, and he manhandles her so aggressively that pin pricks erupt all over her body. "Then what's the point?" he demands, his fingers digging into her skin painfully.

She winces at the sharp indentations, but she knows he's not really considering her threshold for hurt right now. He's too busy worrying about her attachment to Damon. She realizes maybe it should bother her, how unaware he is of her increasing discomfort. But there are tears in her eyes, and she can't blame them on him.

Because she's angry at herself.

(She should never have let this go this far).

She sighs, unlocking her hands from behind her back and reaching up on her tiptoes, clenching her thighs together as she unconsciously pushes Stefan away. "He didn't hurt me," she confesses (he hurt her in more ways than she can count), ghosting her fingers across his face like the first time they made love. "I promise." She looks down again, afraid to interpret that entrancing emerald.

But he strokes the underside of her chin, his touch almost too warm to help her make sense of this convoluted situation. "Then what happened?" he asks softly, and his voice is genuinely curious and surprisingly gentle, touching enough that her heart hurts. She misses him. She misses the couple they used to be, all smiles and slow seductions and sassy surrender.

She misses being happy.

She bites her lip, tongue darting out to moisten her dry skin. "I –" She shrugs helplessly, wishing the movement was more nonchalant, more uncaring. "I slapped him." Color floods her cheeks. It sounds so…so _embarrassing_ when she actually voices the words.

She doesn't really know how she expects Stefan to react. She hasn't exactly told him that she's slapped his brother before – there are some things she needs to keep private, and Damon and she have always had an unspoken agreement that what goes on between them goes on solely between them – and she's just not _sure_. He agrees that Damon is a ruthless killer, but the guy is still his brother. She knows instinctively that knowing his girlfriend slapped his brother won't make Stefan happy.

And sure enough, his face is inexplicably sober for a long moment, and her stomach falls the distance of ten stories. He shakes with barely suppressed rage, the veins in his neck bulging, and her mouth swings open, her body leaning away from him as surely as it usually leans toward him.

"Stefan," she warns hesitantly, her hands automatically moving to brace themselves against his chest. "Stefan," she repeats when he appears not to have heard her, her eyes tightening as his grip on her hips seems to intensify, multiply.

She suddenly, achingly wishes Damon would run out of the house right now, forget everything she threw at him and come save her. (She pleads for him in her mind, pleads for him with all her heart, all her might). Stefan has not scared her since the beginning of the school year when she first learned of his supernatural qualities, but fear floods her every thought. "Stefan, don't –"

But he claps a hand over her mouth, silencing her and bringing her to the brink of a certain nervous breakdown. She's not quite sure why he wants to hurt her for slapping his brother (doesn't he want her to hate him?), but the elusive knowledge would not change the fact that she could die tonight.

Granted, that is a risk she continually takes, having so completely shacked up with vampires. But it is more real tonight than it usually is.

And she doesn't want to die tonight. She hasn't even made her choice yet, and she hasn't had a chance to punish Katherine for all the pain she dumped on the Salvatore family. Not to mention the fact that she hasn't even given much thought to the possibility of turning in the future.

"Stefan," she tries again, this time straining against his hold. She doesn't really believe he will hurt her, but then again, this night has already contradicted every one of her preconceptions. If Damon can admit to caring about her, then Stefan can become the ruthless killer his nature has always demanded of him.

She worries that they have switched places completely.

Stefan's eyes are dead, hard, and there is such reckless abandonment in the way he grips her body (angry and ferocious and territorial) that she shudders. She struggles in his arms, fighting him with all her strength (what remains of it), wordlessly pleading with him to just let her go. It's not supposed to be like this. _They're_ not supposed to be like this. They're supposed to be kissing, to be laughing and enjoying being young and doing couple things. Instead, they're locked in this love square that they can't find their way out of.

And to be honest, she kind of hates him for it.

And then suddenly, before she even has a chance to find some sort of escape route, Damon is running out of the house, flailing his arms around and clearly still very drunk but somehow coherent enough to make a beeline for her.

"Stefan," he demands, the sound so terrifying that she's surprised by the hot flash of relief that sweeps over her, "Get the _hell_ away from her."

Stefan doesn't break eye contact with her, but he swallows painfully, so obviously conflicted that her heart aches for both brothers (she never meant to come between them, but somehow it's all she's done since they arrived in Mystic Falls). "This is none of your business, _Damon_," he snarls, his face contorting unappealingly.

She wants to run away.

"Like hell it isn't!" Damon protests, resisting the urge to tack on more words at the end, to reveal what else happened tonight that Stefan won't want to know about. (She couldn't be more grateful).

She cries in earnest now. "Don't do this," she begs her boyfriend (if she had a dollar for every time she's said those words tonight, she'd have enough money to buy herself another pair of her favorite Converses). "_Please_ don't do this."

Stefan just glares at her. "Are you forgetting," he begins dangerously, and she steels herself for what he's going to say next (she won't let him bait her, she won't), "That just hours ago he _killed_ your brother?"

Despite herself, she flinches. The words hurt.

But she shakes her head. "He did it to _me_," she pushes, emphasizing who Damon inflicted this much pain on because somehow it feels important. "He didn't do it to you. And he's your _brother_. That matters more than whatever happened tonight."

Stefan stares at her blankly, debating his options; he is quiet for a long moment. It feels like the world is holding its breath.

Still, his hands on her waist don't soften, and she clenches her teeth. "Don't do this," she repeats, her voice as coaxing and pleading as she can possibly make it. "You'll only regret it if you hurt him. You know it's true."

He closes her eyes. She realizes she really has no idea what he's going to do.

But then finally, finally, he begins to calm down, his hands slipping slightly on her waist as if he never really meant to hold her so tightly. She feels love clench her heart as remnants of the Stefan who might be her Stefan slowly reappear.

"I'm sorry," he whispers guiltily, hanging his head. She doesn't know what to say.

(Somehow, the apology is not enough).

"It's okay," she manages at last, even though everything is so far from _okay_ that the world feels fragile and utterly breakable. "It's okay."

Stefan kisses her forehead gratefully, purposely ignoring his brother standing off to the side (she hates how jealous he must feel right now). She trembles beneath his touch without really understanding why; she literally has no idea what emotions are coursing throughout her body right now.

She whispers his name without even realizing what she has done.

And before Stefan can lash out again, before everything changes for the hundredth time tonight, Stefan has let go of her, walked away, as if he worries for her, worries for them, worries that things can never be the same after this.

Yet all she hears is Damon's voice, low urgent in her ear.

"You should leave. It's not safe for you here."

She doesn't remember much else after that.

…

She never figures out what exactly happened that night. All she knows is that she was left standing alone in the driveway, wondering where the hell she went wrong.

Wondering how the hell she let this happen.

…

A week later, she breaks up with Stefan.

She could blame it on Katherine's return (the bitch is crazy, after all). She could blame it on this new, violent side of his, the bloodlust and the lies, all the things that she doesn't know if she can abide (that night was really just the start of his downward spiral). She could even blame it on how terrified she is all the time, for absolutely no reason (well, despite the fact that conspiring with vampires is always vaguely dangerous).

But really, she can't blame it on any of that. Because the truth is, she breaks up with him because he no longer has her whole heart.

And she can't be with someone who she hasn't given her whole self to.

She just can't do it.

…

When she strides out of the house after breaking the bond that meant the most to her, tears streaming and falling and fairly _racing_ down her porcelain cheeks, somehow she's not surprised that Damon is at her side, keeping pace with her even as she very pointedly ignores him.

He reaches out and grabs her hand, providing the silent comfort he dispenses sometimes when she's thoroughly upset.

But only sometimes.

"I'm sorry," he breathes, and the apology is so sincere that her eyes water again. God, at this rate she'll never stop crying.

She swivels her head to look at him, never breaking her stride as that ethereal blue nearly breaks _her_. "For what?" She grits out, feeling inexplicably, uncontrollably vulnerable.

(It doesn't escape her notice that this is basically their exchange, their conversation, from that horrible night, only in reverse).

He doesn't waver, even though she halfway expects him to kiss her or sweep her into his arms or something equally ridiculous (the problem is, she has no idea what she wants him to do either). "I'm sorry about you and Stefan," he lets out easily, although his eyes betray how much pain he's in, how much he's resisting the urge to claim her for his own, claim her when she is so unequivocally _ripe_ for the taking.

And God, she appreciates his self-restraint more than she could ever put into words, because she can't make the choice like this.

"Thank you," she drawls softly, surprising herself with how much she means it. It has been crazy lately, how much she means it (means everything) when it comes to him.

So she stops suddenly, pulling him back with her, and turns to face him, her eyes bright with more than just tears.

For a moment, it feels like they are the only people in the world.

He just inclines his head. She can tell he really _is_ sorry. He wants to see her happy, wants to see his brother happy, even if that means he's not happy himself. It's the most selfless she can ever remember him being.

And when he tenderly strokes her cheek, somehow, she knows she made the right decision.

_tbc_

* * *

**Come on guys, just one more review! I know you can do it :)**


	5. I'd Give You Nothing Less

**A/N: Well, here we are: the final chapter. I cannot thank all of you enough for investing in this story and believing in it. All your reviews have meant so much to me, and I really hope you enjoy this last installment of a story I have loved so much.**

**This is pretty much pure speculation for tonight's episode. Obviously it won't end like this, but a girl can dream, right ? ;)**

**Enjoy, thank you for reading, and please don't favorite/story alert without reviewing!**

_Come back, I'll help you stand  
__Let go and hold my hand  
__If all you wanted was me, I'd give you nothing less  
__So come back when you can_

The fifth time she (almost) slaps him, she comforts herself with the thought that she does it because he's being incredibly aggravating, obnoxious, even. He's certainly taking liberties that she never explicitly gave him.

(Even if she all but urged him on).

But really, she (almost) slaps him because of one simple thing, one word, one syllable that has defined her life for the past year and a half.

Fear.

It's fear that drives her forward. Fear that everyone she loves will die because of her. Fear that she won't get a chance to say everything she needs to say before Klaus spills every drop of her blood on that moonstone. Fear that this is too much, much too early, much too soon.

Much too final.

Elena Gilbert (almost) slaps Damon Salvatore because she is so terrified that she can barely breathe.

And all he does is pull her closer.

…

She's drunk. That's really the only way to put it.

She, who never so much as _sips_ a beer at the parties Tyler is famous for having (well, maybe not anymore, not after the stupid full moon transformation), is drunk. Really, thoroughly drunk. She would even go so far as to say that here she is, drunk out of her mind.

In fact, she's dancing wildly about the boarding house, no care in the world except the alcohol racing through her veins and boiling in the blood she wishes she had the strength to drain herself.

She's often wondered what kind of drunk she would be if she _really_ let herself go. Despite Damon's snarky comments to the contrary, she does know how to have a good time. She's dabbled in her fair share of illicit substances, most notably before her parents died. But she was always the perennial good girl. She's never been hung over before, never stumbled out of the bathroom in the middle of the night, acid in her mouth and regret in her heart. No, that was never her.

But then, she has changed so much from who she used to be. And she is discovering that she is a very, very hyper drunk.

Joy.

She's not really sure how she got into the house to begin with, or why Stefan hasn't ripped the bottle of vodka away from her (where is he anyways?). Normally this is the kind of "teenage behavior" his judgy self condemns so thoroughly that she wonders who put that stick up his ass.

Regardless, she's been twirling around in her underwear for what feels like hours now, swinging her arms about like some sort of lunatic (she's a little worried she's gone crazy) and blasting the heavy rock that Damon has collected to an unbearable volume. She thinks maybe she's trying to fill the silence that seems to envelop her whenever her thoughts drift to her imparting doom.

Except she's not really coherent right now, so her motivation is murky at best, even to her.

The charging beats pulse through her as she careens around the eerily gothic room, a thin sheen of sweat clouding her vision. She's overwhelmed by how _loud_ the music is, and her head pounds. Suddenly, it dawns on her that she really doesn't care how much pain she's in.

All that matters is that no one else suffers.

She keeps dancing somewhat maniacally, screaming the words to a song she must have known when she was younger (and infinitely more innocent). She doesn't really notice when tears start to stream down her face, hot and thick and as persistent as Katherine in her quest for Stefan (somehow, she finds herself comparing every aspect of her life to Katherine). Or maybe she just doesn't care.

Her throat feels tight, her chest numb and cold (or maybe it's her heart that's flooded with ice), but she just gyrates her hips harder and closes her eyes, realizing she's coming down from a high she's not ready to relinquish.

She's not ready to face reality, so she brings herself to a stop with much concentrated effort and makes her way to the liquor cabinet. She clutches the ornate wall for support and muses deliriously that this isn't exactly how she wanted her senior year of high school to go.

Her eyelids feel heavy; she struggles to keep her eyes open as she blindly reaches for the tequila she knows is there. (She also knows she shouldn't be alternating between drinks, but that's an argument for another day).

Her fingers wrap around the cool, concave glass at last, and she breathes a sigh of relief so acute that her knees buckle. She falls to the ground abruptly, her body curving in an unceremonious heap that she can't be bothered to correct.

She can barely breathe.

…

She doesn't know how many hours have passed. But suddenly, Damon is by her side, eyes worried and almost hopeful, hair mussed in that perfectly sexy way of his.

Ugh. She must be more drunk than she realized.

"What are _you_ doing here?" She barks, refusing to look at him. She's almost positive that she looks like _crap _right now. She doesn't really want him to see her like this, thank you very much.

And besides, things have been…complicated between them since she broke up with Stefan. It's been months (two months, sixteen days, and three hours, but of course she'll never admit to counting), and nothing has gotten easier. Granted, they haven't had much time to talk about everything that was thrust out into the open the night he kissed her like that, what with all the crazy vampire stuff going on.

And really, she doesn't know why it feels different now. Sure, her life is bound to end tomorrow. But she lives in constant fear of such a fate. This shouldn't be a unique moment.

But somehow, it is.

"Well," he begins slowly, gently wresting the thick bottle from her hands, "The music was a little loud. Besides," he continues, his lips sliding into that crooked smile she loves so much, "I can smell a hot mess a mile away."

She glares at him faintly, but she can't deny that she definitely enjoys the fact that he thinks she's a hot mess. A hot mess is better than just a mess, right?

God. That alcohol really got to her.

"Your point?" She musters scathingly, closing her eyes and burrowing into the comfortable rug.

Damon sighs with the exaggerated air of someone who's suffered far too much in his short life; she scoffs against the thick velvet fabric. As _if_.

But then, before she has a chance to ask him what the _hell_ he's doing, he's reaching for a knife that's resting oh-so-casually by the liquor cabinet, and he's digging into his skin calmly, like the blade doesn't pierce him at all, and her mouth is dropping open because this gesture makes absolutely no sense, and it kind of hurts her admittedly, hurts her because he shouldn't be doing this to himself, and he –

"Here," he says in a bored, tired voice, extending his arm out to her, the blood spilling freely and strangely…beautifully.

She swallows. She doesn't want this.

(It scares her that she does).

So she reacts the only way she knows how.

"Don't pretend you care," she spits out venomously, sitting up and doing her best to ignore the blood that rushes painfully to her head, the dizzying spinning of the room. She avoids the slit on the underside of his wrist like the plague and hopes to God he can't tell that she's breaking.

He sighs with frustration, his eyes dark and somewhat agonized. She wishes she could read his mind; maybe then she'd know why he's treating her like glass when he's well aware that she is a fully capable woman.

(Stefan always did that, and she hated him for it).

Without preamble, or any further explanation, Damon shoves his wrist in her face again, the movement urgent and pleading. She turns her head angrily, almost haughtily. She hates that he's trying to force this on her. Is he so stupid that he thinks she doesn't understand the implications of such an act?

Well, she won't let him presume as much. She does _not_ want to be a vampire. Even if all hell broke loose and the Originals tortured her mercilessly. she would not let him turn her.

She can't explain why she's so attached to her humanity, she really can't. But his fate is the last fate she wants for herself.

But Damon takes her face in his hands and pulls her toward him, her rapidly watering brown reflecting in his unfathomable eyes. His voice is soft, but inherent and unambiguously insistent; it is a tone he often uses, and she gives in a little to the familiarity.

"Look, Elena," he coerces, and she would almost think he was begging if not for the slight upward tilt of the full mouth she finds herself unconsciously leaning toward, "Your previous statement notwithstanding, I am _not_ trying to put blood into your system so when you die at the hands of Klaus you come back to life as a vampire. I don't know if I could stand to have you around that long, to be honest."

He smiles wanly, a lopsided smile, and it occurs to her that she should be happy that he just made a sarcastic jab. But she's too transfixed on how casually he mentions her death, like it's not important, like it – like it doesn't matter.

Thank God she knows better.

She mulls this over for a moment, wrapping her arms around herself and rocking slightly, like she did all those months ago when Vicki died (remorse floods her, and suddenly she wants to hurt the boy kneeling in front of her, hurt him for confusing her so goddamn much). This isn't how she wanted this to go. She was supposed to drink herself into oblivion so tomorrow morning she wouldn't be conscious enough to resist Klaus overtaking her.

Why does he always, always ruin her plans?

She sighs. As usual, there is so much she can't control.

"Then why do you want me to do it?" She asks through clenched teeth, her voice sparked with so much disgust that he very nearly flinches.

He collects himself after a moment of cringe-inducing silence (she winces at how irrefutably _mean_ she's being, but hey, she's drunk), his hand stilling on her cheek, his touch unassuming and too bittersweet for her to bear. "You're drunk," he concludes finally, obviously, giving her a weak smile that is too transparent. She wants to cry, because being woefully intoxicated is, quite frankly, the least of her problems. "You're drunk and you're babbling and I just –"

He doesn't finish his sentence. He doesn't need to.

She realizes that he's afraid of what she might do if she stays this ridiculously drunk.

He dangles the cut he so helpfully inflicted on himself in front of her nose again, and she sniffs experimentally. She finds herself not quite so repulsed this time, although her eyes still twitch slightly as they take in that much pure red. It feels normal, and she's enticed; she's maybe…turned on?

She raises her eyes to meet his, moves her nose away (seriously, liking the smell this much can't be healthy), holds his gaze, hard. "You just…?" She prompts, irrationally curious.

Somehow, she has to hear him say it out loud.

He clears his throat. She thinks he'd be blushing, and severely, if he hadn't been dead for the last 150 years. Hell, he might still be blushing; his cheeks are red and he looks slightly dizzy. Suddenly, she doesn't feel all that woozy herself.

His fingers trace the hollow beneath her eyes, dark and stained with long-forgotten tears. "I know why you're doing this," he says conversationally, dragging his hand across her face, and it's so casual that she brittles in response.

"Oh really?" She squeaks, and she wishes her voice wasn't quite so girly, because she would give anything to make her question sound like a threat.

He smiles again, and this time it is far, far from his trademark smirk (she doesn't know why the sight makes her heart contract and swell all at once). The twist of his lips feels sad, somehow, mournful, and his sorrow feels contagious.

Without even really registering what she's doing, she brings a hand to his ruthlessly defined cheekbones and lets him lean into her touch. She marvels at how smoothly he fits in the curve of her palm.

It is so meant to be that her breath hitches in her throat.

"You're pushing everyone away," he guesses shrewdly, and his perception, his prediction is so spot-on that when his fingers curl around her jaw, she bites her tongue to keep from crying out. "You're sitting here and you're drinking all you can so that when he finally comes for you, you won't have to watch. You're terrified. You're angry. You're hurt. You're blocking everything out."

He falls quiet, his voice fading into the night like the liquid fire burned in her throat. His eyes are bright.

She wonders if he's crying.

"What's your point?" She asks shakily, her voice hovering between feeling too much for him and running the hell away. She wants to be capable of loving only one Salvatore brother, she really does. But it turns out that she's just as bad as Katherine. Her heart belongs to both of them. That's why being around Damon has always been so _difficult_.

And really, she can't even hate herself for it.

He allows his hand to fall from her face (they're completely intertwined, and it scares her how hard it is to watch him go) to rest on her bare shoulder, caressing the smooth skin there. It surprises her that she enjoys having him this close to her uncontrollable heart.

After all, she never wanted to feel this way.

"My point," he continues, his voice just the right shade of sarcastic, the tone she loves unconditionally, "Is that you're weak right now, and you're not thinking rationally. I want you to take some of my blood so that you sober up. That way, you won't do anything you'll regret."

She scowls at him, feeling more than a little offended. She smarts at the accusation that she's uninhibited when she's drunk. She's perfectly fine! In fact, she's probably more in control of herself than _he_ is when he's drunk, at least.

Except for the fact that he's had more than a century to build up a tolerance to alcohol.

And really, she can't deny that he's probably right. She _will_ do something she'll regret, if left to her own devices. This wry affection for him has been growing in her for months now, and all the whiskey she's sucked down is like water to the seeds of desire flaming in her heart. If she's not careful, she'll end up straddling him with reckless abandon.

(Of course, he wouldn't mind. But that's not the point).

She sighs. She hates when she has to give in to him.

But then his hand moves quietly across her cheek, and he clenches his jaw, his eyes so sad that tears well anew in hers. He smiles slightly.

"I can't lose you," he whispers.

She breaks.

"Fine," she manages to grumble at last, abruptly pulling her hand away from his face, because she can't do this. She cares far too much. She can't hear that he can't lose her – she's about to go sacrifice herself.

And it's funny, but she doesn't really remember how they even got to this point together, why she even touched him in the first place. Maybe she's further gone than she thought. Or maybe – and this scares her, the realization is intimidating, but maybe she's in love with him.

But he withdraws from her completely (she feels cold for a moment), clapping his hands together in pure glee. His eyes light up magnificently, and she grins, her mouth curving almost of its own volition. It is a rare day indeed when Damon Salvatore's smile is real, and she realizes that she should cherish the sight.

But just as quickly as light has positively _broken out_ on his face, it is gone. It dies, leaving behind the businesslike, focused Damon who has occupied far too much of her time lately.

She misses the Damon who used to laugh. Where did he go?

She resists the urge to groan as he instructs her authoritatively, "It's best if you come a little closer. That way it'll be easier to stop you without hurting you, in case you get too hungry."

She thinks she would be offended at the insinuation that she could possibly get addicted to his blood, if not for how detached he sounds.

"Plus then I can get a better view down your shirt," he continues flippantly, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. He purposely flits his eyes to the inviting curve of her breasts in her usual attire of black tank top, and she almost breathes a sigh of relief, because at least some remnants of that entertaining Damon still exist.

She shoots him a dirty look as she nonetheless settles herself just about in his lap, and secretly she's somewhat mollified. She knows it's bizarre and also quite pathetic, but she appreciates who he used to be – sometimes. Consumed as he is by her safety these days, he's been inexcusably solemn lately.

He's been so reserved, in fact, that she worries that if she carries out her admittedly _crazy_ plan, he'll never be his snarky self again. She worries more that she can't live with that.

But then, her plan doesn't exactly figure on her living, now does it?

She squirms in his arms, curling neatly into the comforting warmth of his chest. "You're ridiculous," she breathes, a smile in her voice, the words muffled by his black (what else?) button-down.

He chuckles, and the sound hums quietly through her, melting her blood into something closely resembling honey. She sighs into him, feeling delightfully delirious, if she's being honest with herself. She's never felt so completely _entranced_ by a smell, a smell so rich and dark and impossibly heady that it can't be anyone's other than his.

His arms come around her, his wound pressing insistently against her bare, sensitive skin. She shivers, but not with fear; her every nerve thrums in anticipation, fire erupting and igniting everywhere he touches her.

God, she wants this.

"You love it," he whispers into her hair, and she doesn't hear what he says so much as the sentiment he shares. She is torn, she thinks, torn between this undying _thirst_, and what is safe and familiar. Maybe two sides of her are battling for dominance. And frankly, she's not sure which she wants to win.

But she's drunk, definitely. That takes precedence over everything else right now; if she doesn't sober up immediately, the alcohol will certainly make the choice for her.

"I do," she admits at last, her cheeks blotchy with barely suppressed tears. She closes her eyes and breathes in salt and rust, a smell – a taste – that is just dangerous enough to be thrilling.

He nods slowly, but he doesn't thrust his blood in her mouth. He just sits there, and she thinks maybe he's lingering, waiting to make sure she doesn't run away. She bites back her impatience because she so rarely sees him this agitated or unsure of himself, but she has to resist the urge to sulk. She feels sullen; she wants to drink his blood. Is that too much to ask?

Well, probably in the normal world. But her life hasn't been normal since she spotted Stefan in that sleek leather jacket.

Her hands meander aimlessly on Damon's chest, searching for some kind of purchase. Her fingers catch on the bare skin just above the collar of his shirt, and she is surprised by the rakish texture, how it is less smooth than abrasive. She wonders if it is too much of a reach to theorize that of _course_ he has a hard casing around the hollow space where his heart should be. It only makes sense.

She tilts her nose starchly. She can't remember when she started caring so deeply for this boy who could kill her on a moment's whim, but it seems an irreversible transformation.

Finally, he molds his body to hers, his lips gracing the crown of her head as he asks earnestly, "Are you sure?"

The words blare in her mind. Really, she doesn't think she's ever been less sure of something in her life. But that's why she has to do this. It's not so much about breaking the rules as it is about learning what it means to live outside of them.

So she lifts her face to his, shattering into a million pieces that only he could ever put back together when she sees his eyes swimming with tears.

"Yes."

…

She is quiet, meek, and still he seems hesitant, like he is afraid that he is taking advantage of her. After all, this act – if he performs it well, and she cannot imagine that he is not a master at this – will do more than clear her mind; it will enhance every feeling he has ever had for her. He might not be able to control himself.

But she doesn't care.

He must sense her ambivalence, or else seeming indifference, because suddenly, before she is really cognizant of what's happening, his wrist is in her mouth, suffocating her and battering her with its metallic, repellent taste.

She is frozen for a long moment, debating how best to get herself out of this. She realizes how wrong this is.

But before her mind can even fully form a plan to escape his clutches (she resents herself for making it sound like he's holding her captive), her tongue shoots out of its own accord, lapping hesitantly at the crimson droplets. She finds that it's an entirely visceral reaction; her mouth is acting of its own volition now, and she can only moan in rapture as she painstakingly sucks the blood he spilled all for her benefit.

She honestly never thought that this particular act, the intimate sharing of blood, could be so sensual. She never realized that when she lowered her mouth to the underside of his wrist, electricity would spark inside of her and all these emotions she's pinned obdurately down would dredge themselves up, fighting and grinding until she has to accept them. Really, she never thought this could be so intensely, bitterly _different_.

But then, when she did this for Stefan, it was more for his strength than her pleasure.

Damon holds impossibly still, but she hears him grunt, hears his sharp exhale, the suck in of his breath (the suck of hers) as she greedily drinks what feels like too much a part of him not to be sexual. She bows her head relentlessly and drinks for a long while, thick waves of arousal coursing through her. She shudders, breaks.

She thinks maybe she just feels too _much_.

And despite how scared she is of this connection being formed between them before her very eyes, she is powerless to stop, and he doesn't seem interested in making her. She raises her eyes a little, begrudgingly (he tastes so good that she'd like to concentrate her full attention on breathing him in) and peers through her dark curtain of hair at the boy who is currently on track to give her the biggest, best orgasm she's ever sustained.

She smiles when she catches sight of the pale glory of his exposed neck. She realizes that maybe this is so ridiculously intense because of how much she _feels_ for him.

It strikes her as strange, really, that she should be the one drinking from him. (Shouldn't he be the one drinking from _her_? She thought that that was the way this whole vampire shindig worked).

But she's too entranced by the whimpering sounds emitting from the very back of his throat to much care. (She never knew she could drive sex god Damon Salvatore to such abandon).

It also strikes her that she's crying.

Her tears fall steadily on his skin, red with blood and hot with the fire of her pain. This is a crazy aphrodisiac, of course, but just seeing him so close to falling apart has changed everything for her.

Or maybe it was changed all along, all those feelings lying dormant in the part of her heat she has tried so hard to pretend doesn't exist. Because seeing him like this, so unhinged, so bare, and all for her…even as she continues to drain him of the blood she can't deny is precious anymore (she should be worried about how much she wants to keep going, forever, and it's a sign that she's not even thinking about pulling away), her tongue feels heavy and her thoughts spin around in her head.

Frankly, it's terrifying.

And wait. What is she _doing_? She's betraying Stefan, that's what. They may not be together anymore (and she's not sure they ever will be again), but she still loves him (a small voice screams its disapproval, and she frantically claps a hand over her subconscious' mouth). And besides, she is not Katherine.

(She doesn't know why she keeps saying that when it is so painfully untrue).

But her need for Damon's blood has dimmed slightly, and she pulls back just before the telltale feeling rushes through her, bringing her – them – to a point they can't come back from. She doesn't want that; she can't do that.

He just closes his eyes. And so she drinks from him leisurely, languidly, like the way she feels when she's lounging on a chair by the pool, the sun hot on her face. It feels shockingly binding, this slow burn, and she doesn't let herself question what's happening. She stopped herself from the most powerful release with him. That has to count for something.

And her life might be ending tomorrow. She needs to take her chances while she still can.

So she reaches out her free hand and touches his cheek, his skin gleaming with a sheen of sweat that makes her heart ache in ways she can't explain. He doesn't turn away; his eyes lock on hers, and as she continues to lick the pink and puckering wound on his delectable skin, his eyes cloud over and he pulls her closer.

"Elena," he breathes, and even though his eyes are dark and heavy and his every pore screams for more stimulation (she doesn't know how she can tell, but she can tell), the word is soft and caring.

And suddenly it hits her. He's giving her a way out. He's promising her that if she wants, they can forget all about this, the way she trembled in his arms, tore excitedly at the wound he inflicted on himself as if he could give a damn about his own safety.

The way she connected herself with him in a manner she can't undo.

But that's just it. Not only can she not only undo it, but she doesn't _want_ to undo it. She wants to hold onto it. Above all else, she wants him to hold her.

So with an agony she wishes she couldn't feel, she pulls her mouth away from his blood (suddenly, living forever doesn't seem like such an unappealing fate). She wonders fleetingly how he's managed to restrain herself. She would have assumed that in his lustful state, he would have bitten her by now.

The strange thing is, she's not sure she would have even minded. (She might have even fallen apart completely).

The idea of him drinking from her – preferably from her neck, because the inherent _seduction_ of it is impossible to deny – tugs at her, pulls her inevitably in his direction. She wants it, wants _him_, so badly that her heart threatens to bound out of her chest.

She closes her eyes. "Damon," she whispers, the word inexplicably reverent even as her voice breaks. Her lips are stained red with blood.

He thinks she looks crazy beautiful.

But then, he always thinks she looks crazy beautiful.

She basks in his warm glow for a moment. It is strangely freeing, she thinks, to realize that she is so desperately, hopelessly, ruby-red _loved_. He knows when she needs space. He knows when she needs time. He just loves her. _Loves_ her.

And see, that's terrifying. Because she could love him like that, if she tried. And she doesn't know if she can bear being loved – or loving – so wholly, so inexorably and gut-wrenchingly and life-changingly that her very breath stops at the thought of it. She doesn't know if she can take it.

But he touches her cheek, and she shakes beneath his hand, breathing hotly and furiously. He scoots closer to her (it's such a graceless verb for such a graceful man), sweeping his hand across the curve of her lips. She almost hates him for taking away the lingering taste of his blood.

"How do you feel?" He asks quietly, and the question is so absurd that she scoffs. How does she feel? She feels _terrible_.

(Like her whole world is falling apart).

But he must think that what just happened between them should be ignored, or else that she wants to forget it. And she supposes that she does want to forget it.

The only problem is, she's not sure she can.

Truthfully, she feels more drunk than before, if that's even possible. Her head is light, her vision is blurring incessantly; even her nose is throbbing.

And yet somehow, the outline of his face, his face itself, is clearer than ever, more beautiful than she remembers. The curve of his eyebrows, the blush sweeping across his lips…she's wavering, she realizes, wavering even as she leans away from him, trying to get ahold of her whirling emotions.

He seems about to ask the question again. So: "Thirsty," she deadpans, her eyes alight with that mischievous spirit she never really lost. "I feel thirsty."

He bites his lip, clearly trying to hold back his laughter. "Talk to me," he beseeches her, and the words are more sombering than she wants them to be, making the hard cold reality set in. She's thirsty, yes. But she's thirsty for him, not his blood.

She loves him.

She doesn't know why she ever thought she didn't.

She doesn't know why she thought she could keep lying to herself.

And behind her eyelids, she sees things she has no right to see. She sees him laughing with her, one arm wrapped around her, the other tucking her hair behind her ears. She sees a quaint little green house and flowers blooming in the garden. She sees children with her brown hair and his blue eyes running in the backyard, squealing when he picks them up and spins them around for what feels like hours. And she sees him turn to her, such affection nestled in his expression that she just wants to run into his arms. She sees the future, stretching blithely into forever.

She sees _their_ future.

And damn it, she wants it. She wants him, all of him. (She _can't_ want him, of course, but that's always been the point).

It's a revelation that haunts her, that will haunt her.

Because the blind truth of it is: you fall in love with being loved so much. The way he could love her, if he let himself. The way she could love him, if she let herself. If they just let themselves.

But it hurts, realizing how much she unequivocally, undeniably _loves _him. She has to go sacrifice herself, let Klaus drain her body of the blood both Salvatore brothers cherish more than she thinks she deserves. She can't get attached to him, not now.

Never mind that she was already irreversibly attached to him.

She holds his gaze, baleful and shy. He sighs heavily, and she can tell he's blaming himself for smothering the fire that has been small and timid for too long now. She's not sure he _isn't_ to blame, of course – threatening the lives of everyone she loves doesn't exactly put her at ease – but he's suffered too much for her to add to his burden. And besides, he does always try to protect her.

He protects her like he'll die if anything ever happens to her. (And she never has the heart to tell him that she feels the same way about him).

She deliberates for a moment. Getting close to him now (closer than she already is, she supposes) would be wonderful – cosmic and fulfilling and entirely awe-inspiring. But it would also hasten the emotional blow that is sure to descend when she has to give up everything worth living for.

Bu then. It's a chance she has to take.

She pulls herself upward, just the slightest bit, and entwines her arms around his neck almost unthinkingly, her fingers feathering in the intoxicatingly soft hair at the base of his head (she loves how _soft_ he is). She brings her knees out from underneath her and moves to poise herself on his crossed legs, closing her eyes as she draws herself so close to him that their hearts – if he had one, but she refuses to believe he doesn't have a soul – are beating in tandem. Slowly, painstakingly, as if her very life depends on it (it hits her that the cliché is somewhat true for once), she wraps her legs around his back, pressing into him, against him.

If he's shocked by her untoward actions, his eyes don't register it. His face remains impassive, unfeeling, but she catches him clenching his jaw suddenly, and she can see the turmoil raging beneath his skin (they want this, but they don't know if they're supposed to have it). He winds his arms around her without much residual hesitation, holding her in place.

As if she could ever leave.

She falls into him with a relived sigh, her head naturally nuzzling his neck like a little kitten, or like the helpless girl she feels like. His hands tentatively come to rest in the smooth planes of her long, silky hair, and she closes her eyes as contentment sweeps over her, unavoidable and much too beautiful for her to retract or regret.

"Damon," she murmurs into his surprisingly warm skin, and she hopes he recognizes the hint of pleading in her voice, the implicit resignation. His arms tense around her, but it is a pleasant tension; he holds her closer.

"Elena," he breathes roughly, yet somehow gently, and for a perilous moment she is transfixed by the emotion in his voice. She can tell that he's not asking her a question. He just needed to say her name.

Her breath catches in her throat.

"It's not your fault," she reassures him, and it occurs her that maybe she is more comforting herself, comforting herself that he didn't ruin her (but then maybe he could fix her). She realizes her cheeks are wet with tears. She realizes he's shaking.

She kisses the hollow of his collarbone. "You didn't do this."

He doesn't say anything. He just skims the top of her head with his lips.

She realizes that she meant it.

…

Later, later, when her tears have begun to dry and she is sure that neither of them is teetering on the edge of a precipice she is afraid to fall off of (although she can still feel herself quivering), she begins to pull back, using her hair to shield her anguished face. Her eyes are tired and she thinks she might disintegrate.

She shouldn't be surprised that he isn't sleeping – he never sleeps, even when he watches over her long into the night. But he catches her off-guard when he pulls her in closer, as if instinctively. His eyes do not open.

She heaves an exaggerated sigh, knowing he'll hear her. His lips twitch just the slightest bit.

She fights the urge to smile, carefully extricating herself from the admittedly unbreakable hold of his arms. Her very being swells with gratitude to this completely, by all accounts, unlovable boy. He didn't have to take care of her tonight. He could have called her Stefan. Better yet, he could have deemed her someone else's problem and left her alone.

But he didn't.

She stands up, letting her lips trail the length of his forehead, settle against his smooth, pale skin. "Thank you," she breathes, a memory she can't quite recall tugging at the edges of her thoughts.

He doesn't respond at first, and she worries that he hasn't heard her barely audible words. Impossible, she knows – he does have supersonic hearing – but then, he's always been good at challenging her most deep-seated beliefs.

She shakes her head ruefully. She's not sure how she's ever going to give herself up to the Originals when he holds her like this, touches her like this. There's just not enough _time_.

He moves his hands off her back, reaching for her fingers; she reaches back automatically. His eyes fly open.

She stares at him, and he at her, for a long moment that is punctuated only by the sound of their belabored breathing. His breaths, of course, are calm and routine – but that unfathomable blue is just about _exploding _with fire and passion.

He squeezes her hand. She turns and runs.

This time, he calls after her.

…

She doesn't know how long she runs. She doesn't know where she's running, or what exactly she's running from.

All she knows is that she's running.

Her steps echo in the cavernous house, the ghastly sound of her feet pounding the polished wooden floor reverberating in her ears. Her heart races, her limbs tiring as she rounds corner after endless corner, trying to escape from a danger she can't name. Her breaths come shallow, aching, and at last she stumbles into a wall, a hit that dazes her slightly.

Her first thought, of course, is: where the hell _is_ she? She doesn't even recognize this place.

But she just leans against the hard cement, thrusting her face up to the ceiling. She breathes in the acrid smell clinging to the air and closes her eyes, trying to regain some semblance of composure. She vaguely wonders where Damon is (if he was really trying to catch her, he would have grabbed her as she moved out of his arms), but dismisses the thought.

Because suddenly, she knows it's time. It's time to go to Klaus, like she told Rose she would. She still hates the bitch for sleeping with the guy she unequivocally views as her property, but she's beginning to let go of the grudge, and she can at least keep her promises. It's time to go to Klaus and surrender.

(She always knew she'd lose in the end).

She's ready to go, she thinks.

But then, without much warning at all, Damon is in front of her, clutching her wrists like the lifeline she knows she's become for him. Her eyes are closed, but the distinct aroma of cigarettes, leather and some spice she can never identify wafts over her. His name resounds in her head.

"Damon."

The word is a murmur, and she is caught between wishing he would stop being such a hindrance to her master plan and hoping he gathers her up in his arms and never lets go.

He strokes her hair. "Don't do this," he pleads, his concern so obvious that her eyes flutter open.

"Don't do what?" She asks menacingly, narrowing her eyes. He's not supposed to know that she plans to willingly sacrifice herself. Who told him?

Unless…she didn't tell anyone her intentions besides Rose, and the vampire certainly knows better than to spill the secret. The only other option that he somehow knows her well enough to suspect that she'd pull something like this.

Oh damn it. That's exactly what it is.

And sure enough, he focuses those steely eyes on her, a thick glare piercing her through and through. "You _know_ what," he growls, bringing her wrists to her side, pinning her inbetween his arms with a single-minded passion that leaves her breathless (as always).

But through her potent desire, she summons the strength to deny his accusations until he gets fed up or disgusted with her relentless lying and just leaves her the hell alone. Maybe that way, he won't go after her. Because she can't have him risking his life to save hers.

No. She has to know that she died so he could live.

The thought just about strikes her dumb. All this time, she was convinced she was willing to finish what Katherine started in the 1400s so she could save everyone she loves: Stefan, Bonnie, Caroline. It never occurred to her that her motives are much more selfish than that. The only life she truly cares about, the only life she can't let go of completely, is Damon's.

And goddamn how complicated that truth makes her life.

So she averts her gaze and starts to struggle against him, a vain effort that saps her of all her hard-won energy. She knows she can't really escape him, but she has to try anyways.

She can't let him deepen the bond between them. She can't let him love her anymore than he already does. He needs to get over her death, or else she'll look down from heaven (she has to believe there's some sort of after life or she won't have the strength to do this) and break all over again.

And after all, there are only so many times a person can fall apart.

"I don't have any idea what you're talking about," she voices loftily, not meeting his gaze because she knows he reads her telltale brown far too easily.

He chuckles darkly. Actually, she decides, it's a bittersweet laugh. He knows exactly what she's going to do. He knows all about her ridiculously selfless – ridiculously _stupid_ plan – and he knows he's powerless to stop her.

"Yes, you do," he murmurs quietly, one finger tipping beneath her chin and pulling her face gently towards him. His eyes search her face for signs that she's ready to give in. "You know exactly what I'm talking about."

She shakes her head somewhat frantically; she can feel her façade begin to crack. "No, I really don't," she promises, subtly twisting her hips so she is not entirely at his mercy (she aches a little at the knowledge that she will have to hurt him to save him). She doesn't dare look at him, for fear of what she will find.

He sighs heavily. "When are you going to realize," he begins with a groan, and she is surprised by how light and conversational his tone is (but then, he tends to ignore the severity of situations such as this), "That I _always_ know when you're lying?"

She snaps her head back towards him, glaring at him with as much fervor as her weary eyes can handle. She decides to throw his words back in his face, because it's easier than admitting that he knows her better than anyone else.

"When are you going to realize that I don't give a damn what you think?" She spits at him, poking his chest emphatically even as she feels herself start to fade.

He snorts. She glowers impressively.

"Oh come _on_," he pleads, except that he doesn't sound like he's begging at all; he is sarcastic, and snide, and everything she's always wanted (his familiar flirty eye thing thrills her undeniably), "I think you stopped believing that six months ago."

She cocks his head. She's surprised that he got the timeline so perfectly.

"Oh really?" She croaks instead of acquiescence, because it's the closest she can come to dishonesty at this point.

He just nods, his fingers grazing her cheek with more tenderness than she can bear. "You're going to give yourself up to Klaus, aren't you?" He asks softly, his hand threading through her dark locks, his expression deceptively blank. "You're going to go to him and tell him he can take you right then and there."

She sighs in defeat. She doesn't have the strength to lie to him anymore, not when he's looking at her like this, like her pain is his pain, no matter the consequences. "Yes," she admits, and her voice breaks.

She sounds so feeble that he reaches to catch her as she falls.

"I'm not surprised," he says lightly, venturing a guess that she's not expecting him to be so docile about this. "It's always been in your nature to care more about others than yourself."

She raises an eyebrow incredulously. Somehow, he's managed to make what she considers the best thing about her sound like a disgusting and altogether undesirable trait to have. She would be impressed with him right now (she's impressed with him often, actually; she's just good at pretending otherwise), if not for the fact that she's kind of angry at him.

She opens her mouth to argue that she wouldn't exactly call it a bad thing, her selfless "nature" or whatever. But he traces the curve of her lips reverently, and she finds herself unable to say anything at all.

Instead, she's in awe of how _beautiful_ he is.

"It's admirable, really," he continues, his other hand coming to rest on her shoulder and pulling her closer as she lets herself hold his gaze for what feels like a lifetime. "But I'm going to guess that there's one thing you haven't taken into account in your little plan."

He says it dismissively, of course (it's obviously his preferred mode of speaking, although she doesn't think she minds), and she should be offended. But she only trembles in anticipation.

He clenches a jaw, breathing so raggedly that she wants to kiss him. It's an urge she really has no desire to explain, but she waits.

She thinks she'll always wait for him.

"You've forgotten that I won't let you do this," he explains finally.

It takes a moment for his words to sink in. A moment to understand what he's really saying.

A moment for her to realize that she loves him for wanting to save her, but she _won't let_ him do it. It's as simple as that. She won't let him put his life in danger on the slim chance that he can save her.

He matters too much to her.

"It's none of your business," she says coolly, her very bones rusting with how much of a liar she has become. It's his business, of course, his business because they care so much about each other that nothing can ever be private again.

His eyes widen unmistakably. "Once again, I always know when you're lying," he tells her pointedly.

She swallows the lump in her throat. Maybe there really is no point in trying to deceive him. He's the king of deception after all; it's not like she can get anything past him.

Well, it seems like the only other option is to fight him on this.

She crosses her arms over her chest, although his extreme proximity makes it quite a hassle. "And what are you doing to do about it?" She threatens, making her face as impassive as possible (a worthy accomplishment, because it's hard to hide that she's going to die specifically for him).

He smirks at her, and suddenly she knows it's pointless to continue to try and wheedle her way out of this. He can see right through her. And besides, if all else failed, he could rip her necklace off and compel her into telling him the absolute truth.

She doesn't think he would do that. But that's not the point.

"I'm going to stop you," he informs her flippantly, interrupting her violent musings. His fingers pull insistently, gently (it's a technique he's perfected) at the hair by her temples, breathing her in as if she is so delicious he cannot even really think properly. "I'll physically restrain you if I have to."

His tone is just dangerous enough to scare her. But then she reminds herself that he would never hurt her anyways.

She has known it for a while, but it has never meant more – she has never felt it more keenly – than she does right now.

It hurts, how close they are to something beautiful. She could fall into his arms right now. She could tell him she loves him, tell him that she doesn't want to breathe without him anymore. She could capture his mouth in a searing kiss and let him hold her forever.

She could let herself be his.

And she knows he would let her. He would respond enthusiastically. He would kiss her until she was his in every way she could be. He would even, probably, confess that he has loved her for longer than he cares to remember (she's through maintaining that he's as cold as he seems). He would envelop her and smother her and ignite more fires than she could count. It would be magical.

But she's afraid of the burn that will inevitably come. She wonders if a fleeting, throbbing moment with him is worth how much harder it will be to give herself up to Klaus.

So she forces a hard glint into her eyes and bellows firmly, "Let go of me!"

His hands still on her face, his touch suddenly icy. "What the hell are you talking about?" he accuses her, and it is more a statement than a question, his eyes flaming and prying and so desperate that she almost gives in.

But then she remembers that she loves him.

"I don't want you to save me," she clarifies slowly, each word like a bullet in his old, crumbling armor. "I don't _want you to save me_."

He is so stunned, his face a mask of confusion and hurt, that she decides that if ever there were a moment to leave him so thoroughly speechless, this is it. So she averts her eyes and steps away from him like a petite ballerina, light and dancing and cringing with a poignant pang as he stares blankly at her, completely unseeing.

God, she didn't want it to be this way.

But she realizes maybe she should know better than to assume that he would ever surrender like this, without so much as a protest. Because as she tiptoes along the wall, he groans and reaches out, very meaningfully entwining her hands with his.

It is such a clear gesture: _You are not going anywhere. I care too much to ever let you walk away. Please don't do this to me_.

She trembles, sways on her feet.

His eyes are sad. "Elena," he whispers, his voice full of steel and warmth (a combination only he could pull off), and she wishes he could see how far he's come from the ruthless killer she used to know, "I did not compel you the night I gave you your necklace back so you could go give yourself up to Klaus."

Her eyes widen. She falters. This is new information that she hasn't exactly considered. True, she always suspected something was off about her memory of that night, but she never imagined…

"What are you talking about?" She stammers, unconsciously floating back in his direction.

He smiles, desolate and broken. "That night after Elijah," he breathes, his gaze beautiful and wistful and everything she realizes she never really forgot, "I came to your bedroom to give you back your necklace, and I told you…" He trails off, wincing slightly.

She knows he won't finish without prompting.

She doesn't really think about what she's doing, the pain that this will bring. She acts purely on instinct and brings her free hand to his face, searching, hoping. "What did you tell me?" Her voice is soft.

He shakes her head. "I shouldn't –"

"You shouldn't what?" She urges, her fingers following the sharp indentation of his cheekbones. "Shouldn't tell me how you feel? Well, darling –" The endearment slips off her tongue quite naturally, and she is surprised when neither of them flinches – "Don't forget that we may not have much time. Tell me what you have to tell me, before anything happens."

He clenches his jaw, palpably moved by her words, squeezing her hand as if for reassurance or fortitude. The very air is quiet, waiting. And then.

"I told you I love you."

She gasps. She is consumed by so many emotions at once that it feels like a kaleidoscope of sorts: anger that he would dare to make her forget such an important event, fear that it is too late for them, joy that he truly does feel the same way, and such potent, powerful love that she nearly keels over backward.

And all she can think is that thank God he uses the present tense.

She raises her hand almost instinctively. "I can't believe you would ever make me forget that, you selfish, selfish prick!" She screeches, tears forming in the eyes that surely can't handle a fresh onslaught of moisture.

He looks stunned by her sudden outburst. His lips sag downward, and he doesn't seem to really know what to say. She hates him for this, hates him for taking away her memory of something so important. God, he had no _right_!

And yet…she is shaking.

She takes advantage of his momentary silence and lunges toward him, her hand poised to strike his cheek like she has four times already.

But this time, he stops her. His hand grabs hers, and he stares at her with so much compassion that she wants to be everywhere, anywhere, but here, because he knows her and that is so _terrifying_.

(After all, she never said she was brave. Just determined).

"Elena," he breathes, eyes alight with a fire she hopes will burn her until she's unrecognizable.

She closes her eyes. She doesn't know what she wants from him anymore. Of course she wants him to say he loves her – but she wants that memory back. She's sure it was special, wonderful. She's sure that if only she had remembered it in time, everything would have been different.

But.

He pulls her toward him, shaking his head slowly, one hand curving gently around her cheek. "Oh, Elena," he whispers, and she thinks she's about ready to fall into him. To hell with Klaus. To hell with the sacrifice. For now, she is unequivocally his.

(Forever).

He holds her gaze, unwavering. She is struck by how sincere he is, his simple refusal to shy away from the truth this time. His lips curve upward almost imperceptibly.

And it is a murmur when he says it at last, but she would hear him even if he only mouthed the words.

"I love you."

It feels cataclysmic, life-defying. It feels like the end and the beginning and every other cheesy metaphor she can come up with.

It feels like home.

And all she can do is cry, hot, salty tears that overwhelm her because she is so _relieved_.

"Oh Damon," she manages to get out through great, heaving sobs, holding onto his hand like he is an anchor, her one certainty, her only savior, "I _love_ you."

His eyes sparkle. And then, because it's the only thing he can do, the only thing she wants him to do, he pulls her into his arms and kisses her.

She doesn't even hesitate.

…

It feels like heaven, or maybe their very own designed bless, this melding of lips, of bodies. She feels hungry, desperate, but also tender at the same time. She wants to take it slow, wants to be with him and breathe with him and love him like he deserves to be loved.

She wonders why it never occurred to her that he _deserves_ her, deserves her like no one else ever could.

Within moments, she is tearing at his clothes, pulling at his skin, her hands greedily reaching for every part of him she can find. He is so tantalizing, so brilliant. She is blinded, saved. She loves, loves, loves…she is so full of this strange emotion that she might be drowning.

He holds her tightly, so tightly, simultaneously kissing her like he has no purpose except to ravish her and ridding her of every obstacle, every garment, until she is naked and bare in front of him and they realize how beautiful they are.

Together. Always together.

He doesn't pause to ask her how she feels, or whether she wants this, or whether it's okay, what this means. After all, he knows her.

And suddenly, in the shortest of throbbing, bittersweet moments, he is hers and she is his and nothing else will ever, ever matter.

The world dissolves in a shower of blinding light that is the only salvation she has ever needed.

…

The fire is quiet.

"I don't know if this changes things," she admits shakily, curling into him as if she were meant to be there. She feels inexplicably warm.

They've been lying here for a few minutes, basking in the light of what this meant, how much it mattered. She feels full, happy, but she finds she is unable to look at him; she cried when he entered her, and although she is not ashamed, although she could never ashamed of feeling so much for him…she realizes quite definitively that this didn't accomplish everything she wanted it to.

She still has to die. All for him, of course, but that was never really the point.

He doesn't say anything. His hand spells soothing, lazy circles on her stomach, his fingers dancing over her bare skin, erupting every nerve ending on her body. She sighs into him, suddenly conscious of nothing but his touch, not a single rational thought coursing through her mind. She is lost in how perfectly right this is. She is so glad she didn't slap him this time.

He kisses her hair, and her eyes water. He is so tender, so sweet. It took so many months for them to get to this point, so many misunderstandings and unintentional hurts and broken promises. She knows that this could have happened so much sooner, if she hadn't been stubborn and he hadn't been biting. But then, all she really knows is that when his hips rolled with hers and he whispered the three words that she could never forget, she felt happy.

She felt whole.

He is her other half. It is cliché and probably somewhat silly, but something inside her has molded to fit his shape. Something inside her has shifted, moved to accommodate him, and it feels natural, like she was waiting for this moment.

(She realizes that she unequivocally was).

She closes her eyes, carefully bringing her hand to where his touch reverberates through her core and lacing her fingers through his. She tucks her head nearly into the crook of his neck and deftly maneuvers her legs until she's completely and totally entwined (forever) with him.

"I wish it did," she whispers, afraid to lift her eyes and meet her gaze. He has already broken most of her resolve, and she thinks that the longer she stays here with him, the more likely it is that she will chicken out of her carefully concocted pan.

Still, it is impossible to pull away.

"I know," he says, and the two words, so simple, so true, resonate with such intrinsic concern that she trembles. It is so far from breaking that she turns her head and kisses him with all she has.

Her sudden hunger for him (or maybe it is her refusal to acknowledge what has to happen next) must shock him, but he just squeezes her hand understandingly, capturing her lips with the fire she's always loved about him. Their hands remain fused between their bodies, and she presses herself against him, feeling like crying when the moments breeze past and still he does not ask her what is wrong.

God, she loves him.

They break apart at last, but she hovers near him, her nose diving by his, her lips aching to be rendered even further swollen. She feels consumed by some strange sort of lust; she's not having a physical reaction to him exactly (well, she supposes that's not entirely accurate – she always has a physical reaction to him), and she thinks maybe it's her heart that's yearning for him so exquisitely.

"I love you," she says fiercely, and she doesn't really have to think about the words because they are a fact of her life now.

He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. "I think you've shown that quite well," he commends her throatily, his eyes darting to his hardness, nestled almost protectively between her legs.

She rolls her eyes, but she smiles without much ire behind it. She appreciates these little jabs of his, she really does.

It makes her life seem not so dire.

But she's not exactly secure enough in their…whatever the hell they have become in the past passionate hour to let him joke about it just yet. She has to know that he's going to be alright. She has to know that he'll follow her into the dark, at least as far as she'll let him (she won't let him die for her). Otherwise, this whole stupid plan will all be in vain.

And she won't be able to go through with it if she thinks he won't get over her.

"I'm trying to be serious here," she reminds him, the slightest of laughs ringing in her voice as his arms lock bindingly around her back. She loves that he seems to think he'll run away again if given the chance. It's funny because she's helpless to let go of him now.

"Oh, I know," he assures her, grinning wickedly like he does when he knows he's going to get exactly what he wants. "Let me exactly show you how _serious_ I can be."

She raises one delicately formed eyebrow in question, not quite understanding his meaning. But she discovers she doesn't really have time to ponder his intention, because without much warning he smirks devilishly and brings his lips to her neck.

He starts kissing her skin persistently, his tongue peeking out and tracing the myriad of veins pulsing and charging through her. She breathes heavily, her eyes rolling back n her head as he starts to attack the delicate skin by her collarbone, his teeth just barely grazing the surface of her skin. She's overcome by thick waves of desire that she can't quite suppress.

This is so much more than sex, she realizes with a helpless sigh. This is more than making love, more than becoming one, more than…more than everything. This is fate.

And with perhaps the greatest effort she's had to sustain in a while (it reminds her of the first time she slept with Stefan, and she's shocked when she doesn't feel even a slight twinge), she takes hold of Damon's dear head in her hands and slowly pushes him away.

She knows that if he wanted to, he could keep himself right where he is. She loves that he respects her enough to hear her out.

He comes up with eyes dark and dancing; she quakes ridiculously with how much she _wants_ him right now.

"What?" The word is deceptively innocent, lips still angled purposefully in her direction.

She smiles half-heartedly. "How can you joke around at a time like this?" She asks faux-seriously, pulling back until her tone just borders on a whine.

His eyes soften, almost inexplicably so, and suddenly he is looking at her like he did when she breathed his arm in the midst of the greatest passion he has ever known. He lifts her hair off her shoulder, sweeping his hand gently across her skin. "Because I'm afraid," he confesses somberly, casting his eyes downward as tears spring to her eyes. "I'm afraid for you."

She swallows, hard. He never admits fear. He never allows anyone to see him weakened. And here he is, completely exposed.

And all for her.

She shakes her head, pulling herself closer still, tugging his face up to meet hers. "Look at me," she urges, the frantic edge of panic sharp and cutting and veering very quickly into her words. "Please, for God's sake, just _look_ at me!"

His head snaps up, his eyes dark and vulnerable and so tangibly _frightened_ that all she wants to do is protect him from herself (but the damage is done, and she doesn't mind because it's worth it, it is). She is humbled by how very open he is. There is nothing he is hiding.

She trembles, her hand snaking out and grabbing his almost as if it has a mind of its own. "I'm right here," she reminds him, her voice shaking as she sees all the emotions she's fought so hard to suppress reflected in that consummate, magical blue. "For now, I am right here. I'm yours."

The words dangle in the silence, like they often seem to when she's around him. As usual, she means them. No matter what happens tomorrow, she is his for tonight.

He appears to war with himself for a moment. And then, he makes a decision, a decision that shapes the rest of their forever.

(She doesn't want him any other way).

"You're damn right you're mine," he growls at last, pulling her towards him and kissing her with reckless abandon.

She gives herself completely to his touch.

His mouth is by her ear, hot and furious and demanding.

"I love you," he breathes.

And suddenly, none of it matters.

Because she knows her time is dwindling, she knows that this can't last, but maybe it doesn't matter so much (anymore), maybe she has finally found her solace and this is how she's supposed to spend her final hours, almost full to bursting with so much _love_.

She kisses him harder and lets him take her away.

…

She falls asleep with his arms around her and her heart in her throat.

…

When she wakes, the sunlight is just barely streaming through the windows. She smiles lazily and burrows deeper into the man who she doesn't think she'll ever really let go.

"Morning," he whispers in her ear, tracing the curve of her hips with one long, slender finger.

"Morning," she returns, lips grazing the hollow of his neck.

"I love you," he whispers without hesitation.

She pulls herself closer. "I love you."

(It feels like she can't get enough of the words).

They are quiet for a long moment. She refuses to think about anything but the way he smells, rich and delicious and full of promise. He is hers, and she is his, and if Klaus wants to take her anyways, then so be it. She won't ever leave him. Not in any of the ways that matter.

The blue-eyed vampire kisses her shoulder.

"I will keep you safe," he promises at last, his voice gruff with emotion.

She doesn't know whether she believes him.

But it feels like more than enough for now.

_fin_

* * *

**Please please please tell me what you think! :)**


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